To The Stars Above

On the morning commute, the office clerk
Stops by a shoe-shining stand. The kneeling boy,
Earning money for a new bike, rapidly transforms
His footwear from a grubby worn leather look to a polished
Black finish that reflects the morning sun.
Head down and working hard, he wipes
The sweat from his brow with a stained, grubby cloth.

That same clerk soon enters his office building.
Fuelled with oat flakes, dark roast coffee and a tangerine,
he writes the weekly report, due before lunch.
His head beneath the cubicle wall horizon,
He furiously types to triple the pace
Of the ticking plastic wall clock.

The boss receives it with gratitude
And sends everyone home early.
That afternoon, he drives a pink golf ball to the 18th hole.
It sits inches from the pocket on the shamrock green.
He bows his head, lifts his putter and puts it home
In a gentle, swift hit.

At the end of the day, these three humans
Crane their curious heads to the skies
In unison, like saplings to sunlight.
With their Earthling eyes, they trace the meteors
That glitter the dark, space fabric of night
In gentle streaks of silver.