Whispers On Drawling Nights

Oh moon, sleepy moon—

mama is at home, a lantern in her belly as

her lips quiver a concoction of whispered prayers;

missus' head is curved round  her table, 

her textbooks demanding she drinks from their elixirs;

sister is in bed, her eyes tired of giving freely from it's well, 

‘What tree does money drizzle from?' she chants;

friends have duvets grizzling their chins, 

cussing their chi for being a torch lit on a summer morn—

Grant them sleep as my legs shove deeper, 

digging for gold in this barren mine of mine.