In the gutter

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In the gutter
(just where my friends always said I'd be)
By E.P. Allan

The road is a drag way of infinite
proportions, its long black tongue
glistening in the hazy moon's light
beacons me to slip, quick as a blur
of butterscotch, over its cool, wet
asphalt.

It is such a yowable moon,
round as a robin's eye, dangling
so close I swear I could reach one lazy
claw and snag it down, steal it
from the birds and lap it up
like so much warm white milk.

The hedge across the road
rustles with the promise of mice.
I can almost see the shining
pebbles of their eyes as they whisk
along a trembling branch before
poking an absurdly pink nose
from the matted leaves and twitch
it in my direction.

They, like the moon are afraid
of me, why else does it keep
just out of my grasp? It is fearful
I will lick it clean down
to the bitter marrow the same
way as I'd tongue a sparrow's
feathered bones.

It is time for me to cross, leap
over the deep gutter, too dank
and wet with leaves for a haven
of my liking, and disappear into
the promise of the hedge.

And the moon, the shy
timorous moon can ride on
the blind roofs of cars filled with
faces lost in shadow. As they rush
through the empty night, the silver
spears of their headlights fish
for my buttery glory.