Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.

The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.

The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.

You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads

And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it’s not deep enough
to drink the moon from.

I want to kiss you
beneath a lamp light
on a crowded street
and ask you to stay.

Just for me.

But we are not made
for, or of,
celluloid and limelight.
We are

just fragile

flesh and bone.