Tinfoil Moon

My tinfoil moon is so cheap

and glitters prolifically,

unlike the gold sun jailed

in the center of the solar system,

mined to death for its light,

wasted resource above the

bickering buildings with their

fluorescent innards.

Perhaps my dearest half will tear just the

littlest piece of my moon

to fashion me a fashionable ring.

No one loves the crinkled moon as I do,

The glitz and glam of being second best.