Map to the Stars

A Schwinn-ride away: Eagledale Plaza. Busted shopping

strip of old 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, 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. 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 spotlights first one DUI

attorney, then another who speaks Spanish so the sky

is constantly chattering, like the biggest disco ball ever.