Amy Winehouse In The Sea Of Crises

Last Friday the Moon was close in the sky,
just past two hundred thousand miles away.
I took out my telescope and—to play—
pretended Amy Winehouse had stopped by.

She fell, vomited. I didn’t care why.
I observed at low power. Amy lay
in the cold grass, groaning. She’d sit up, sway
and collapse back down. The Moon was east. High.

“There’s the Sea of Serenity,” I said.
“The Sea of Clouds is to the left and down.
Far right’s the Sea of Crises. Bet you knew.”

Pretend Amy Winehouse asked, “Am I dead?
Is this fucking puke on my evening gown?”
It was fun having someone to talk to.