Eye To the Keyhole

I miss the stars.

Above Chicago
The night sky is a milky wash.

High overhead, landing lights
Of airliners
Form a bright staircase.
But they are no substitute
For the Hunter
The Bear
The Pleiades
Or Seven Sisters.

As a boy In the country
I scanned the skies
With a Sears telescope
Growing familiar with
The Milky Way.

An occasional satellite tracked a path
Across the deep black of space
And I marveled
At the glory above me.

Omega Centauri
Pulsars, Quasars and Black Holes
Tantalized my imagination
And I gave my wonder freedom to roam
My eye to the keyhole of God’s house.

The unclouded moon
Was my pale companion
A source of inspiration
The collecter of wishes.

I memorized creation
The way others charted
Earned Run Averages
And the developing body
Of the girl next door.
I communed with the cosmos
Until mom called me in.

Now, the sweetness
And charm of the celestial
Is dismissed
In the muck of city lights
And little boys are abandoned
To the lights of video games.

I miss the stars.