Styrofoam Stars

Clunky but lightweight, dipped in glitter,

they would crunch if they fell,

if the monofilament suspending them

suddenly snapped with a twang.

I know you’re probably expecting 
some pulpy, lunar crescent as well,

the requisite paper moon, in other words, along with
cheesecloth tsunamis, burlap volcanoes, 
the whole nine yards. But no, it’s just these lousy stars 

from where I sit in this sticky orchestra pit,

spacing out and watching those heavenly bodies,
orphaned after some holiday party, twirl slowly 
from the ceiling of the office 
to form new constellations no one ever 
placed an order for:

the Staple Remover. The Paper Shredder. The Guy

Who Used to Come in to Repair the Photocopier.

Those celestial signposts used to help us navigate

as we threaded our way between the cubicle icebergs

on our journey to the far off land of the supply closet,

the restroom, the hallway where once they kept

a fine selection of coin-operated vending machines.

Not anymore. We’ve forgotten how to read these star charts,

our memories have gone as blank

as the faces of our unplugged computers,

swept clean as a stage after the last ripple of the curtain.