At The Casino For My Boyfriend’s Gig
Tonight, a star
fell out of the sky—
I thought about the millions
and millions of paintings
I’ll never see.
What makes a life poor?
So much wanting
and not having?
Free, the memory
of hot dogs on the grill,
outsides burnt black—
or learning to smoke brisket,
the soft layer of fat,
the hard crust of spices.
Is the memory of meat enough,
baking bread from salt and flour?
It was free, the warmth of the sun
sinking into your bones;
free the brittle cold of Michigan winter.
It was free to hear him practice,
pulling each chord into its proper shape—
the concert, of course, required tickets.
So I stare out at the sky.
Every day, joy and suffering
fall down like rain.
Night comes— the sky clears.
The stars wink at us,
and are free.
