THE STARS

And when you step out of the building you look up at the stars again
For the first time in a long time, and it seems
Like they are shining from some vast, detached silence
Just for you.
You feel alone for a minute,
But when you look back down you're still standing on K Street with
Dumb-ass cabs honking at each other and sirens converging
Then separating in the distance.
You button, then unbutton your jacket, and stare into the window
Of the new Bombay India restaurant.
One of the waiters moves from table to table, not looking
At the dining couples, lighting each white candle
Before things get too busy.
All you want to do is stand here, even with people all around you
Watching the fires come on,
Until a woman brushes by so closely
You can smell the shampoo in her hair and it smells
Like artificial strawberry or cherry Coke. You turn
To watch her rushing down the street before she disappears
Around the corner—trench coat
Belted over skirt-suit, running shoes and
Walkman on, tuned-in
To one of the radio stations of the earth,
Broadcasting to her solitude.

— stephen gibson