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I am glad that the seasons' stars are fixed

into the same comforting patterns or constellations,

night after sultry night, year after decelerating year.

So much is lost from this whirly-gigging world, or a

rather decrepit carousel in an unprofitable amusement park,

because of too many debts called too often due by time.

But the stars are unchanged above all that in more than just

space.  The stars are the same as forty-nine years ago, on

those Friday and Saturday nights when BlueShift---beside

me in the compact car's small compartment (bucket seats)---

slipped his shoes off and untucked his shirt's tails from

his bell-bottom jeans' waistband, then unbuttoning the shirt.

I could not see his midnight blue socks in the natural darkness,

but I could inhale their provocative fragrance; and eagerly my

mouth and tongue tasted the flavor of his bared torso's warm

flesh (and his erect nipples), nearly half a century ago.

StarSpared