I pretend my ceiling is the night sky,
that the broken light fixture is the moon
surrounded by thousands of silver stars.
the grumbling of my stomach doesn’t end.
There is never enough of the bland cheese
or powdered milk we get from the old church.
I asked my mother if we were poor folk.
She smiled, shook her head no and continued
to patch holes in my jeans that had no knees.
Dad says that I can sleep under the stars.
I pretend the night sky is my ceiling,
that the moon is a brand new and bright light.
Copyright © 2013 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved