517: Fake Stars

Nov 08, 2008 13:48



I used to think this was a neat trick:
curled up in the passenger seat of
my father's truck, squinting my eyes
to make the approaching stoplights
blur into quivering stars, all sharp
points of stained glass and cold light.

This was before I knew my eyes were
failing, when my father was still Dad
and late night was the only time I saw
him, when I could watch through the
window and pretend to be asleep. When
I still thought every promise would be
kept and every cold light was a star.

writing, poetry

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