I Stare At the Moon

I sit with my hair in a towel, fresh from the shower,
and seriously contemplate the moon.

Consider those craters to humor only me.
There's no movement on the lunar surface.
Quite positively insidious poets eat cheese
from the inside to the out and cause the surface
to pucker to form giant recesses in the whole.
At the same time, I sink to apathy in my solitude.

Let the gluttons reach the apex
and show their professed abilities
to defy the gravity of the atmosphere
by making themselves known to the masses.