We watch you from afar
in your rusty orange suit,
haplessly leaning against the side of an ebony building.
Knocking off ashes from your jade white cigar
as though the burning soot gives you some place to direct your glow.

You glare out across the overgrown street,
waiting for a passerby to bravely come forth and fork over the money,
that gazing awe which they dish out constantly.
But you do not move from the soft black, only stand taller
as though anywhere else would dirty your expensive tint.

You cock an eye and squint your grin,
blowing a ring of smoke that'll loom with the clouds.
As the people in the street move on
each stares with satisfaction at your power and dignity.

Then your form becomes delicate, graceful.
Your authoritative control withers to a passive content
as the colors of your suit wash down and fade in a puddle.
Now a mature belle, poised
in a loving silver gown.

The cigar burnt to embers,
the smug expression turned to a virgin glow,
as the figure rises atop the world
and looks down at its hungry inhabitants.

The harvest moon now crossly waits the next day
as it lurks quietly in an alley
for more business and another grateful audience.
But for now, the motherly moon will enchant the sky
and cradle her blissful creatures.

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