The moon rises late, tardy again, belly full,
to question my motives for writing a poem about her.
She speaks in tongues: streams of bright
unintelligible syllables that I, as a goose, understand.

I call Hey, Diddle Diddle to confuse and taunt her,
pretend to be the dimwit she thinks I am.
My cat and my fiddle seem fit rationale since they
thrive in her light, screeching and wailing their dissonant tunes.

I chew intellectual cud like my ruminating cow who
hurdled the moon with an udder as full as the moon’s round cheeks.
In the sink by the window, my dish and my spoon, crazed
by her beams, blast through the bubbles, run away hand in hand.

Shrieking, chomping, leaping, eloping. My little dog laughs —
no need to explain — Hey, Diddle Diddle is reason enough.