Last night I sat on the log outside our cabin

And threw empty beer cans at the moon

But didn’t hit it once.

Fireflies appeared, disappeared, appeared, disappeared,

Low on batteries maybe.

Your voice inside was fading in and out as you vacuumed,

Singing a song I didn’t recognize,

But maybe that was because every second word was lost to the vacuum’s whine.

It was that kind of evening — on, off, on, off.

The vacuum stopped.

I threw one more can at the moon, but didn’t look to see if it landed.

(Note: A late friend of mine was a huge Billy Collins fan.)