Each One Is a Tiny Sun by Patrick Meeds

It has been seven days since I have spoken
and the cashier at the grocery store has just
broken my heart. I am an amateur astronaut
too chicken to fly. What are my options? Watch
me compromise, watch me accommodate.
There’s only so much I can do to escape
this ring of orbiting debris. I am ill equipped.
I missed that day of school. All of those
silvery stars visible at night? They are still
there during the daytime. They are like black
ice or a spider’s web.
We just can’t see them.
Patrick Meeds lives and works in Syracuse, NY and has been previously published in Bohemian Pupils Press’ Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag, Stone Canoe, and the New Ohio Review.