First you must roll it down your street
when it is least likely to be noticed,
preferably noon. If it yellows while you roll,
you must tell it all your names and listen to it croon.
Do not face it directly, but when it hums,
wrap it up in copper wire and tie it to the trees.
Who will reflect the sun now that darkness nears?
Repair yourself. The moon in your yard shines
through you. It slips back to the sky at night,
elusive and cool. Perhaps you held it for a time,
perhaps it only fooled you.
Christina Daub has taught Poetry and Creative Writing in the English Department at George Washington University and in both the Maryland and Virginia Poets-in-the-Schools programs as well as to adults for many years at The Writer's Center. Her poem, “At the One Step,” received a 2017 Pushcart Prize nomination from Beltway Quarterly Magazine. She currently has an interview in February's The Writer's Chronicle. See more at christinadaub.com