urban dog
08-23-2007, 04:19 PM
Gazing Up
Walking out of the chain store, beginning his stroll
down the road to his house, underneath the sky’s bowl,
he looks up and sees points that are smaller than peas:
Jupiter rising above the dark trees;
Venus en route to the western skyline
leashed to the sun like a docile canine;
and higher, bright Cygnus (the beautiful swan),
and the Summer Triangle. Yet others are gone,
for the streetlights obliterate much of the view
of the cosmic expanse above Fern Avenue.
Though he walks a long a way before reaching his place,
not once does he see any trace of a face
but the ultra-pale countenance of a balloon
that gazes at him and says, “I am the moon.
I know that most folks in their homes are content,
not keen on observing my rise and descent.
While they eat, watch TV, or get ready for bed,
they are deaf to the dance of the sky. Do they dread
the welkin above? For they don’t feel dismay
at the glare that gives night the appearance of day.”
Just before reaching home he gets sight of a bat,
and then he goes in and lets out his old cat.
While the bat locates moths via sound through the night,
the cat teases mice by the moon’s feeble light.
He stalks and torments them and thinks he’s on par
with the planet’s most stealthily prowling jaguar.
Beneath the soft starlight while people all sleep
creatures forage or hunt without making a peep,
or sometimes they’ll freeze in the headlights of cars,
yet even those souls never gaze at the stars.
A pair of opossums may sometimes hook up,
but you can be certain they’ll never look up.
Yet just as these beasts pay no heed to the heavens,
man hunts not for the stars, but for 7-Elevens.
Copyright © 2007 by Martin Elster.
All Rights Reserved.
Walking out of the chain store, beginning his stroll
down the road to his house, underneath the sky’s bowl,
he looks up and sees points that are smaller than peas:
Jupiter rising above the dark trees;
Venus en route to the western skyline
leashed to the sun like a docile canine;
and higher, bright Cygnus (the beautiful swan),
and the Summer Triangle. Yet others are gone,
for the streetlights obliterate much of the view
of the cosmic expanse above Fern Avenue.
Though he walks a long a way before reaching his place,
not once does he see any trace of a face
but the ultra-pale countenance of a balloon
that gazes at him and says, “I am the moon.
I know that most folks in their homes are content,
not keen on observing my rise and descent.
While they eat, watch TV, or get ready for bed,
they are deaf to the dance of the sky. Do they dread
the welkin above? For they don’t feel dismay
at the glare that gives night the appearance of day.”
Just before reaching home he gets sight of a bat,
and then he goes in and lets out his old cat.
While the bat locates moths via sound through the night,
the cat teases mice by the moon’s feeble light.
He stalks and torments them and thinks he’s on par
with the planet’s most stealthily prowling jaguar.
Beneath the soft starlight while people all sleep
creatures forage or hunt without making a peep,
or sometimes they’ll freeze in the headlights of cars,
yet even those souls never gaze at the stars.
A pair of opossums may sometimes hook up,
but you can be certain they’ll never look up.
Yet just as these beasts pay no heed to the heavens,
man hunts not for the stars, but for 7-Elevens.
Copyright © 2007 by Martin Elster.
All Rights Reserved.