If Earth had two moons,
that would be a disaster.
Excluding what such
an astronomical discrepancy
would do to pop music
and local weather patterns,
I'd never have known which one
I was kissing you under
that cool night in the park
on the creaky swings,
after we'd dared
to dance for the first time.
It could have practically
trashed the experience—
to have finally actualized
the love I had for you
under a propitiously blue-silver
glow from above, while
privately, you swooned for
the pure whiteness of another.
The whole relationship
could have been corrupted,
likely doomed to failure—
not that it was much better
the way it really happened:
two people picturing
different things—
even with just the one up there.
