Hussy Moon by Pris Campbell

That hussy moon peeks
into hotel windows,
steamed up cars, locked offices,
snaps photos of adulterous men
touching bared thighs,
speaking of promised roses
and days that will never arrive.

You told me about her.
Said her ass was too big,
when undressed, to appeal,
that her breath smelled of garlic
when you kissed.

You hoped the moon
would entice me to forgive,
make me leap into your arms,
rub salve into disappointment, but

already the moon has my photo, too.

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