The night so clear I mark
your outline, the sky a diner
placemat I used to draw on
as a child before the food came;
from crackers the waitress brought
to keep me quiet, to fill the hole
that hunger made, a spill of salt
like cold white stars I connect
inside you now; worry beads
that led me in circles, trails
the ancients followed where
I will never go: Rapa Nui,
Angkor Wat, Machu Picchu.
Behind me, house lights track
the meagre theater of our lives:
a TV rerun flashes the empty
den, kitchen dishes clank,
slippers scuff worn linoleum.
Little fox, are you no different
than the rest of us, wanting
what you don’t have? In the dark,
I tell you how little I know.