IN THE CONSTELLATION OF THEIR PARENTS

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Everything changes.
Like right now.

It just did.

Sometimes it is inadvertent.
Sometimes it is sneaky and diabolical 
like a house cat who plans its terrorist strike
behind your back, while you sleep
or try to be smarter than the contestants on Jeopardy
Which, thanks to house pets alone,  you are always in.

When change arrives, the air raid sirens which have been largely silent since the early fifties 
suddenly shriek like Maria Ouspenskaya who played
the old Gypsy fortune teller in Frankenstein 
and you scramble for the sanctuary of your duck and cover desk
which is no longer there.

In the immediate moment after,
when the danger has passed
and the threat, for now, is over
You tabulate your losses
and in Memorium, you add 
what is now, gone forever, to the long list of names
that litters your memory
like the pale white boys on the battlefield of Gettysburg
whose bloated phosphorescent  bodies
glowed like the stars 
which once twinkled in the constellation
of their parents

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