Tonight, the night sky is my bowl of cereal.
I lay on the hood of my aunt’s 91′ wood paneled station wagon,
Guiding a white, plastic spoon in front of my eyes,
Pushing it through the soupy darkness like a space shuttle.
I close one eye and,
scoop the stars into my small spade,
bring them gradually to my curious lips,
chew them into a mush,
and swallow them with a glass of milky way on the side.
How do stars taste?
The ivory moon glares at me as if I plucked its children from their cribs.
My heart weakens.
I’m sorry Mr. Moon, I say in my head,
and fling the disposable weapon to the ground.
My mouth opens once again.
I reach my tiny fingers deep into my black hole,
and pull out like popcorn on a string, the little dipper, O’Brien’s belt,
and the North Star.
The stars drift gently back to their beds,
as I wipe the saliva on my khaki pants.
I slide off the car, and bend over to pick up the spoon.
Plop, into my pocket,
and I go inside to watch the night sky from my telescope until dawn.