Beneath the Cork
You loved the sky and you loved the stars,
but only one star hummed within your heart.
You named her eyes and built her a gold cart
so you could parade her through the streets--
past the castle, past the flats, past the cars.
Her eyebrows flew and her eyelashes danced
as she ate the sights and sipped the city beats.
Burping, sneezing, and laughing like a lamb,
inside her cart, your star sang and pranced.
Then one day, whilst pushing and promenading,
you whistled along the cobblestones, little man,
oblivious to the This & That falling from the sun.
Take the giant glass bottle that wrapped its mouth
around you, starting North and slipping South.
Suddenly you could not touch your star.
Suddenly you could not touch her cart.
Suddenly you could only hear your heart,
with a thumping and a whumping against
your bony, moaning chest, O little man.'
You wanted to kick and punch and fight
from your place beneath the cork
as your baby star floated back to
her mean old Mother Constellation.
Throw provocation at provocation.
But only she had the gift of might,
the gift of flight, the gift of light
illuminating your weak heart,
as you stood inside that big bottle.