The stars are getting tired.
All summer they were on holiday
and now, the first of March,
they hide behind clouds
in case I should see
that they have faded.
I light a candle for the stars.
One wet wax-dripping candle
that before morning
will have burnt away
and put red wax
on the table cloth
from Afghanistan..
So hard to clean.
A friend pays a vist
and tells me I've grown tired;
that words have taken
smiles and friends
from my face
and left lines
better left unwritten.
I light a candle for my friend.
One wet wax-dripping candle
that, like us,
before morning
will have guttered out
and put friendship
into the category
of those things
hard to clean away.
My friend
and half the vodka
is gone.
I share what remains
with the stars.
From the balcony,
at one in the morning,
I throw the bottle
to heaven;
my Molotov cocktail
to reignite the stars
before they fall
and become hard
to clean away.
I thought today:
If you save up innocence,
it rots,
that the cost of preserving innocence
is beyond most middle-income families
and that
it is the
one commodity
the rich can never afford.
.
(C) Sandy McCutcheon.
Last Revised: January 2001
