Wednesday, July 5, 2017


So—one day in the Starbucks, I
stopped. And tried 
to listen in, and between
the weak din

of the background hard bop and 
the murmuring traffic
outside on the Street, my sweet little 
conscience whispered 

to me: You know 
what? I take 
all it back—you shouldn't
listen to me,

and never wish 
upon a star. It may look 
pretty, all 
twinkly and infallibly faraway, 

but a star doesn't know anything 
about your past 
or current 
predicament. A star 

has never shit 
its pants as a little kid. 
A star has never 
had to get high on Krylon

just to face up to 
mowing the lawn. 
A star has never daydreamed
about whether there's  

life on Mars, causing it to
botch another work email,
or dreamed of a star 
that's technically its sister

out of weird pent-up sexual frustration;
it has certainly never had to 
get up and make its bed after 
such an incident happened, either.

Or even—not once, come 
to think of it—been through the 
sheer hell that is having
to wake up in the morning at all, 

let alone ever felt as 
jittery, small, and dismayed, 
as utterly futile, 
as preternaturally balanced

between anxious and dull—
as dirty 
and as pure 
as you're feeling now.