Stars: A Prose poem

My family has a cattle ranch in the Rockies. It was there that I learned that the night sky has far more stars than anyone who lives in the city will ever see. It’s called “light pollution.” The light that the city gives off, the buildings, the streetlights, the cars; all of them combine to blind us to the lights in the sky above us. Apparently it fucks with the migratory paths of birds as well. Part of me likes to think this is why they shit on us from above, covering our streets, statues, and cars with a layer of discontent. They’re pissed off that, rather than wintering in Mexico, they’re stuck here getting rained on all winter like the rest of us Vancouverites.

These are the strange things I think about when I’m sitting on a bench in Chinatown at four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours.

I look up and the night sky’s true awesomeness is hidden from me because of the light seeping into my eyes from all that surrounds me here on Earth. But you will  not hear me complain. I have enough “stars” of the human variety that surround me here on the streets of this city I call home.

There will be plenty of time to gaze into the heavens when I am lying on my back, gasping for my last breath, in a piss-filled gutter somewhere. This is my city.

YVR: My city, ’tis of thee.


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