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.
