Sun Surveys Other Cynosures
      I was all hot for honors, money, marriage, and You
      made mock of my hotness.
                               —St. Augustine, Confessions

A cosmopolitan stuck in the sticks,
far from the worst, and farther from the great,
I'm like the Sears of space—a middle-aged

star of medium brilliance near the edge
of a third-tier galaxy, constant solace
for this ragtag crew of sequins that cling

to my bright hem ("bright" relatively).
Alone = All One. So these dimwits
made me their Ra, Ra God, Sol, single-most

source of their metaphors—their girlfriend's eyes,
their hero's gold shield, their cloudy explosions.
Them - me = desolation.

From my semi-splendid isolation
I glare at inner-galaxy big shots glittering
among themselves, too grandiose to notice

me, singing solitary rounds of "O
sole mio" solely for my benefit.
Giant stars are too distant for my wit.

Copyright © 2004 Michelle Boisseau All rights reserved
from Trembling Air
University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission