Onion Moon

If I peeled back its paper brown layers
could I persuade you, that this onion
is really the moon.

If I filled your hands with copper
coloured coins
would you think me rich, self-praising
me to all of your friends.

If I said what I meant lip read
and free – would you taste my
words sweet,
like a summers picnic, full of home-made
apple pie.

If I should leave you  with nothing
of want to come home to – would
you consider me cold, long failing
in my practice of your satisfaction.

If when the end of this day comes close
casting reflection, on all you believe.
What then, as you sit in your framework
of new found grief.

Maybe, it's all for nothing  that I ask
what I do

Or could it  be
I just need you, to be truthful with me...