If I could talk to the moon, I would tell it to make me a tittle-tattle garden party by the neighbor’s front lawn, then I would ask tomorrow to hop on a Uber, zap through the streets, serve me up a plate on the yard, splash the naked truth on the driveway and welcome it. But honest to goodness truth, I can’t talk to the moon and even if I could, the sun would brusquely pop like a road runner with a spaghetti plate on its neck and say “hello, I am your Lyft driver; what’s your story?!” Yup, it would!

©️ Angela Aguiar