The New Moon

The new moon, owl eyed and glowering
from a slim bit of cloud obscured sky, while

on the boarded avenue the wild host
ride crotch rockets to the ambrosia stand.
In the park's far, feral end wild dogs howl.

A crone-stick wielding witch taps up my street
with her ugly dog, muttering something
under her breath that I'd rather not hear.

Quick twist up a Bridgette's cross from broom straw
and splash the cat's milk bowl out on the steps.

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