I’m sitting
on the porch swing,
thinking of how
he and I
used to
sit and swing
together.
The stars are duller
than and old pocketknife.
They used to sparkle
like five-carat diamonds.
I wonder,
is heaven
up in the stars?
Beyond the stars?
Can he see them
like I see them?
Is he wishing?
like I’m wishing?
Read the full poem: Wishful Thinking
