Map to the Stars

A Schwinn-ride away: Eagledale Plaza. Shopping strip of busted

walkways, crooked parking spaces nicked like the lines

on the sides of somebody’s mom-barbered head. Anchored

by the Piccadilly disco, where a shootout was guaranteed every

weekend, those gun claps: coughing stars shot from sideways

guns shiny enough to light the way for anyone willing to keep

a head up long enough to see. Not me. I bought the Star Map

Shirt for 15¢ at the Value Village next to the Piccadilly during

the daytime. The shirt was polyester with flyaway collars,

outlined in the forgotten astronomies of disco. The shirt’s

washed-out points of light: arranged in horse & hero shapes

& I rocked it in places neither horse nor hero hung out.

Polyester is made from polyethylene & catches fire easily

like wings near a thrift store sun. Polyethylene, used in shampoo

bottles, gun cases, & those grocery sacks skidding like upended

stars across the parking lot. There are more kinds of stars

in this universe than salt granules on drive-thru fries. Too many

stars, lessening & swelling with each pedal pump away from

the Value Village as the electric billboard above flashes first

one dui attorney, then another who speaks Spanish so the sky

above is constantly chattering, like the biggest disco ball ever.