Problems with Neon

Thoughts coil and weave around my backwards sight

as the muddled moon grows dim with freckled clouds

questioning the purpose of my intent gatherings

in the cratered crevices of its frowning face.

I rely too heavily on the balanced bones of my neck

to lift my thoughts from the static ruminations of grief,

those misplaced sorrows, those awkward fears,

to the way the night fades and chills to frosted morning muses,

Or to Pierre, the cat's, strange twitching pleasure in crunching

the flakes of dead dry leaves.

For life is unkind to hurried joy in flamboyant neon lights

and I must accept the pleasures of quiet routine glory.