I Am Here. Where Are You?

Out under the summer stars,
in the warm air, in the hush between musical movements—
two crickets are playing a Schubert duet—
feeling the slender cool breeze curl around my wrist,
I again attempt to write. Alas, yes.

You read: summer stars,
and maybe you see them—
a dark canvass with holes poked in,
some near, some quite far,
the sky not blue, not black,
but in between,
like silence.

Perhaps you might be thinking:
Where is he going with this?
Or: I don’t have time for a poem right now.
Or maybe: A poem about the night sky—
that might be a nice, quiet
little retreat from daily boredom.

Perhaps you will have your own memories—
unless you happen to be out here too,
under the same vast roof,
feeling what I feel,
seeing what I see.
Maybe you think of last night,
or of when you were a child,
in the backseat of a car
watching the stars glare back through the window
as an old person drove.