Arlene Corwin writes

Howling At The Moon

It’s easy to talk, blowing hot air  
Partially present,   
Muse of sincerity absent, 
Squawking like yesterday’s radio waves. 
Sure, there are reserves:  
Answers there, 
Days when one knows, 
And one knows that one knows. 
Answers that flow as they glow in their prose. 
  
Then sod it, next day 
We’re biting nails, killing whales, 
Drinking or sniffing our coke 
While the talk is a joke.

What next?  Well, there’s will, 
There’s still stillness – 
Who says that we’ve got to act out every impulse, 
Says when to dance, when to sit out the waltz?

Head full of rocks 
We stand on our boxes 
And howl at the moon.