By Frances H. Bryce, October 15, 2020 —
The moon was full, the ground covered with snow,
my husband and his secretary at work didn’t show.
The moon was full, the next day very cloudy and cold,
“There’s no money in this account, sorry” by the teller I was told.
Last night the moon was full, the next day a cold, dismal and rainy day
I purchased a gun to blow them away.
The moon was full when I tracked them down,
at a sleazy motel on the outskirts of town.
The moon was full when the shots rang out,
my aim was less than perfect as they scurried about.
Last night the moon was still full, the next day the sun shone bright.
I stood very nervously in front of a stern judge who sent me away.
At night the moon was full as I languished in jail,
I heard there was no injury, the next day a friend posted my bail.
(I’m going to say that this is a poem that I’ve written that had no relationship to anybody I know, or especially me.