The moon wears a Cheshire Cat grin tonight,
As if mocking the strobes,
Of heat-lightning which flash,
On the opposite side of the night sky.
The first drop of rain has not fallen,
Nor sounded the first, distant peal of thunder.
The frogs, in their ghostly chorus,
Are glad that so far, it’s only a light show.
And I, looking into that starry void,
On the eve of the first of April,
Am I but another fool?
I wished on Rigel tonight.
I see that pale, illuminated smile,
Waxing into madness, perhaps.
After all, we’re all mad here.
The only place left to go is back,
To the frontal lobe.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2006