Calling the Moon (Poetry)

It is cold here, at this window,
and we've been talking now
for what must be at least an hour -
or, more precisely, I have moaned
and you've just listened, patient
as I poured out my complaint.

Your face drips, lemon-sour,
with winter rain rinsing clean away
such pity that you might have felt
for a mortal whinging faintly at the night
and so ignorant of protocol, boldly calling up
a strange deity for instant free advice.