Steel Steam & Stars

Me but the man on the moon alone. Lying in a field of dreams. Watching shooting stars come home.

Wide awake. Can’t fake it? Counting sheep.

Hear a whistle while I work? My guess the steam from kettle leaps.

Onto stove top stains. Some sauce spilt in vain. That my steel wool will raise and leave no to trace of.

But lamb phased.

It’s coat stolen, cold, just skin and bones noted. Could pass for something else. Sans horns. It’s called a goat kid.

That last rhyme lacks for something. Sorry for ramming it down your throat....

Shooting stars take aim and steel triggers