Rye?

I only allow myself to truly mope

On alternate days

In months that rhyme with “estuary”

While the moon is waning.

All other days I awake

Blissfully unaware

Of the previous day’s problems,

Full of false faith

That the sun will keep rising,

Secure in the notion

Of righteous forward motion,

Kissed by the breeze

While pissing on the ground.