Today Joseph is sitting alone,
with occasional nods to the waitress
she tops off his cup while she�s snapping her gum, making her way through the lunch shift.
Counting out coins, he leaves them arranged in neat lines and circles and arcs.
And she just stares at the tip that spells out her name- and
Ideas are like stars.
And yesterday, peddling down 4th Avenue,
between the stalls and the bookshops,
the sepia toned colors of a lost afternoon
cradled a curio storefront...
and inside the air was thick with the past,
as the dust settled onto his heart
and here for a moment is every place in the world- and
Ideas are like stars.
They fall from the sky,
they run round your head.
They litter your sleep as they beckon.
They�d teach you to fly without wires or thread.
They promise, if only you�d let them.
For the language of longing never had words,
so how did you speak from your heart?
Yet here is a box that swears it has heard
that ideas are like stars.
Tonight, Joseph stood out in the yard,
as Debussy played from the kitchen
celestial companions �til mornings first lark
shone overhead and he listened-
and who was that shadow- there by the gate?
Who was that there standing guard?
It was only loneliness, and loneliness waits,
and ideas are like stars... ideas are like stars.....like stars...
by Mary Chapin Carpenter