Here’s a poem I wrote twelve or thirteen years ago. It’s not a great poem–by no means is it a great poem–but out of all the poems I’ve written, it’s one of my favorites. I’ve always been partial to its repetition and simplicity.
The crooked blue star. . .
The blue star askance on the second story window of the house beside my own
lends itself to someone’s childhood.
What boy or girl slapped that star proudly upon that window,
watching it every night as it glows with the life of the stars
Does someone remember the star?
Whose mom or dad – and not my own – would paste
a star in their child’s bedroom window?
Her father stuck the star to the window.
His mother stuck the star to the window.
He stuck the star upon the window. Careless.
She stuck the star upon the window. Carelessly.
She picked at a corner of the star, trying to peel it free,
to no avail.
He picked at the star.
She picked a star.
I picked a star.
That crooked blue star.