ANOTHER POEM ABOUT THE MOON AND STARS

and how their luminosity is a parlor trick, the way
the son in my car assumes he's Kid A. My Rolodex
is filled with distant friends. I think it's airless where
they are, because their faces never change. And I like the idea
of perfect boot tracks in gray powder, it's why I don't
do funerals. They sell these plastic cows now, dressed up
like Elvis, ballerinas, astronauts. When it gets slow,
I arc one at arm's length over the moon. I could stop changing
my phone number, but nobody puts their feet on the railing
like I do. I'm sure to hear from someone just as Venus
descends between the V of my crossed feet. I read Newsweek
so I'm certain somebody out there is dying. I'd rather keep them
close -- I had this friend in Andernach who married
his babysitter. His name means Archer and I've always meant
to ask him if he kept up his star charts. Each Christmas,
Bruce describes his love of midnight volleyball. Don sends
postcards every Lent, which involves denial and the moon.
I've made up this label that says No Forwarding Address,
but only for my friends. Meanwhile, Mars is as close
as it ever gets. I could put on glasses, but I like the lack
of focus.


Jeffery Bahr
JEFFERY BAHR lives in Colorado and has work published or upcoming in Black Warrior Review, Chelsea, Green Mountains Review, Indiana Review, Prairie Schooner and Quarterly West.  A complete list of publications is available at his website.
The Adirondack Review