The crescent moon is performing a striptease in tonight’s sky,
a sheet of cloud covering her modesty, draped over her curves.
Shades of pink and rouge, she blushes all over under spotlight stars,
the city skyline a wonky stage in the skies smoky cabaret club.
She picks up a factory’s chimney, uses it to hold her cigarette
and uses a nearby abandoned car park for an ashtray.
A drunken fool heckles her, “Are you Méliès’s moon in drag?”
Insulted, she lifts her leg high above his head to prove him wrong.
Picking out a rhythm from the world below, a heavy goods train,
she struts, she poses, she strips, seducing everyone in the world.
She takes her bow and goes backstage as the house sun lights comes up,
A gentleman, a fan, smoking on his balcony, tips his hat to her and claps.