How Hard It Is to Be the Moon

How hard it is to be the moon.
I hang palely in the sky,
while all else shines and sparkles
and the shooting stars go by.

And on Earth, the useless poets
scribble words in praise of me
for recital by young lovers,
gazing moonstruck at the sea.

For a time I had some company
but then the visits stopped.
Magnificent desolation
is carved deep into my rock.

The tides sweep in and out once more.
That’s the way things always are.
The Earth goes about its business.
I float alone, among the stars.