The moon is fat and golden overhead and I bet if it broke open it would smell like lemons, blossoms of sweet-sour light raining down from the cracked blazing halves, and if it did I would tip my head back and drink the droplets down more more more until I was overflowing with light, irradiated with citrine moonglow, too bright to look at but too beautiful to look away from. I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie that matches his jacket and he knows if it’s going to rain tomorrow because he checked his phone (which says yes) instead of looking up at the sky (which says no); I went out with him because it was safe but now I am stuck walking along the cracked sidewalk with him while around us everyone hurries off somewhere better and I can’t tell him about the moon, and when he turns to me and opens his mouth a horn blares from it and I recoil from him before I realize it’s from the taxi up at the corner, the stoplight striping its bulky yellow body scarlet. “What?” I ask and he says “I asked what you were thinking about; you look so serious” and I want to tell him I am choking on the moon, I am flooded with her fruit and holy lemonade is spilling from my mouth but his tie matches his jacket and so I just say “Nothing.”