Contingency #3

I have other plans for this poem. This is just the original I wrote down at the store. It's sort of Shell Silversteiny, sort of kidsy.

Contingency # 3: The Sun

If someone moves out of your house,
you can always invite the Sun to come visit.
And it will seem exotic, like an event
when he strolls to your door with his two metal bags.
But the Sun is very hard on a house,
always scorching the cushions and spontaneously
setting fire to paperbacks and wreaths.
He hates electric lights, sighing obnoxiously
if there’s one on to compete with him.
And his sighs are thick, tropical breezes.
He won’t be all bad because he’s got the best stories,
but don’t try to tell him anything because
“There’s nothing new under Me” he’ll say.
You’ll always feel a bit microwaved
and be very tanned on one side.
No fruit will ever remain raw, no pet uncooked.
But he’ll spend every night on your porch
watching the moon slow waltz the sky.
And you’ll say to the big guy,
“There’s other moons in the galaxy, you know?”
And he’ll say, “Not for me.”