There’s a man in a poem

            bathed in moonlight.

                        You know him

                                    you’ve seen him before.

                        He’s bending over

                                         tipping his dreams

                                                            into a bin

                        with fish-heads and bottles

                                               and yesterday’s paper.

                        Nobody wants them.

                                    He raises his head

                                                to look at the moon

                                                            through a fork in a tree.

                                    You know the moon

                                                            you’ve seen the tree.

                                    Can you write him

                                                            another life?

                        You want to don’t you

                                    but where could you find

                                                            such a magical pen?

                        He’s the man in a poem

            every night

                        tipping his dreams

                                    raising his head.