When he was a little suburban magi,
swadled in a hand sewn hair shirt of grade school worry,
he listened to the train coo to him in the distance
as it moved, camel-like, brooding with worries of its own,
leaving him to wish upon the stars that glimmered just outside his window,
little silver sticker stars waiting for first grade wishes.
This modern, noiseless world
is not dark enough for wishing upon those stars.
He cannot see them.
He is thankful for the bright city lights of adult joy,
but sometimes he longs for cherished childhood pain
to show him the pinhole beams from infinity.
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