Burning bright, making heat, it makes sense now,
So between the library and the playground,
I declare myself, son of a star,
And nobody notices, I blame the volume,
Too loud, too proud, the celestial
Requires its deliveries to be soft and silent,
We can’t hear the constellations
Turning in the sky, can we?
Yet they are there, moving, and we all respect
Them enough to give them names,
So I say it again, and the people notice,
While I notice they pretend not to care, it’s okay,
They still respect my whisper
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry.
He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish a novel.
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