An old poem revisited & revised.

The moon is a lover for lonely people.
Look up at the night sky — there she is,

she is shy. She pales white when you
glance at her. You can blow kisses

to the face of the moon, she will kiss you back
when the wind blows. When cheeks blush red

as Yantai apples in February moonlight,
in the midnight air — she is there.

She is your lunar lover. She lies down
with you to bed. She caresses your head

and strokes your brown hair. She whispers,
“I’m here.” She lets you sleep well, dream well

of springtime, of white wine and Wendy’s,
of free Jr. Chocolate Frosties from coupons

torn from yellow phone books. [Our brothers
have come home from China now — they never

left us. We’re riding bikes down Duck Street.
We’re playing soccer with bare feet in summer

heat on green lawn…] In the morning the moon
sits on the housetop and watches the sunrise

just to make sure, before she leaves you lying
there, less lonely. She’s heard your howls

for company. She’s kept her lunar light on
and slept with you all night long until dawn.