Stardust

It’s a thermos.
It’s a postcard.
It’s a shirt you left at my place.

Your chicken is burnt,
like your cinnamon rolls.

Memories are stardust, and
I keep them on
videotape.

It’s a Hot Pocket.
It’s the second.
It’s a bad bowling score.

Your breath is bad in the morning,
like your cooking.

Love is stardust, and
I see it all
as red, blue, green.

It’s Wednesday.
It’s a newspaper.
It’s a letter left in my purse.

You get bad haircuts,
like your dance moves.

Details are stardust, and
they’re there
just beneath.