Birthday Moon

Ms. Haiku

I routinely fault mercurial whims
on moon phases assigned to aging's dim
future view. I must channel thoughts that swim
scattered into bright notes of birthday hymns.

Monday's post-birthday should be illegal.
I ate enough to feed a small narwhal.
I ate like a sneaky Neanderthal
dressed in elegance like a femme fatale.

Monday's blues begin with pants that don't stretch,
and running is unpleasant when I catch
the train, and suck in breath as I kvetch
about early trains, which is so far-fetched.

When previous highs crash Monday at noon
know it's easy to blame the Sunday's moon.