rock/star

collecting experiences,like a woods-boy’s special rocks.carefully laying out the tchochkes,all across the shelves, to kidnap precious dust

waiting still to show ma and popwhether they will care or not.

So, I go on:

mantossing back and forth the particles of dustcharting all the stars splayed as neatly as the Milky Way spilled across deido's oaken chestor maybe it was bubba'swho I never metno use in crying over though the guilt stain soaks deep into a young pine's fresh and loosened grainThat old chest was hard, but he is tough as nails and rocksat least that far i can read the starsthe steelworker died when I turned nineor eleven, maybe

babyI linger at the carouselApollo's organ badgering the Pegasus to toss the children up and downHera, the immortal frown throwing dishes at the family quilt hangin on the wall while Jupiter the gassygiant slumps and belches from behind his crown

the proscenium, red velour and the golden tassel mobile draped about the archthis shelf where I hid my rocks, stars

waiting still to show ma and popwhether they will care or not.

So I go on: