A disorganized Milky Way appeared on the dining room wall
scattering stars across the ceiling
in a downbeat.
Three friends died within an autumnal week of each other. They were younger than I am
All of them lit by glistening sun
all the walking days of their lives.
Carl Sagan said
Our matter is made of red giant stars;
evolution of life is caused by their death.
Under October’s low-hanging orb, an old man fiercely plunked a city trashcan. He might have been playing Rachmaninoff.
In the rearview mirror, maybe Monk.
Orange candy corn pylons lined the road to buy Halloween treats; Terence Blanchard’s Choices riffed on the car radio.
In an interlude, Cornel West chewed on spoken words.
Emerald green balloons tumbled down Broad Street. They seemed to be in a hurry.
In hindsight, maybe lost.
A burly black pick-up truck blocked my driveway. The officer told me to drive over my lawn.
In that moment, dusk settled.
Perhaps my three friends came to offer me a last line
maybe the constellation glinted off the window sill prism.
The symphony should be like the world;
it must embrace everything.