Joni Renee Whitworth

I can’t sleep tonight,
I am in love with the moon.  All day
bugs splattered like raindrops on my windshield. 

In my great schooner margin I kept on
past retired fly fishing, past painted horses
on first nation land.  I can’t
feel right anymore, I keep weeping in public restrooms. 
All year people congratulated me like
racetrack fans. In seamed code I drifted
past the living rooms of people of other religions,
past thoughts that soon I will have children and they might be with you. 
I am with other pilgrims near the corn chips.
July’s nine o’clock sky is positively neon.
I am instantly a jerk for ever being depressed.