When I wake, sleep-hazy and half-dreaming in the small and dark hours, the moon is a dime.
The moon through my bedroom window shines silver, a beacon, a giant 1/10th-dollar lighthouse
to the American Dream.
The Man in the Moon, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, looks lovingly down on his land—our land,
this land is your land / this land is my land—with a mouth that folds gently at the corners and
crater eyes like soft, young coal.
Come and get me, those eyes say.
