Luna

The quadrillionaire,

so rich

he actually bought the Moon,

launched into space

to survey his purchase.

When he arrived,

he found it was a lonely,

grey, dark, empty rock,

devoid of air and life

and gravity,

but still, he thought,

it was worth the price,

paid in full to the United Nations,

despite worldwide protest

and angry posts on social media.

He bounced around a bit

on the dusty surface

and planted a flag

with his corporation’s logo

in what he thought was a prominent spot.

He watched the Earth rise,

gigantic and blue, in front of him 

and shed a tear.

Then he was bored and ready to go home,

but there was a mechanical problem

with his space shuttle.

His pilot frowned

at wires and computer chips

and hunks of gleaming metal.

They needed a replacement part,

but due to bureaucracy and budget constraints,

it would take a couple of years to arrive.

The quadrillionaire and his pilot

were well stocked in food and supplies

but didn’t have much in common.

He was still making money, at least,

the quadrillionaire, that is.

Because he had the Moon trademarked and copyrighted,

and there was a fee to gaze at it with your lover,

photograph it hanging low and large and orange

over a majestic rock formation in the desert, 

describe it in your poem,

teach its phases to bored schoolchildren,

and allow it to influence your tides.

On a clear night, you could try to view 

the stranded quadrillionaire

with your backyard telescope.

But most people said it wasn’t worth

the monthly subscription.