A dash of stardust fell into my coffee earlier, —
Right after I remembered how Grandma liked her pancakes,
Ever straightened by the gravity of time, never buttered enough.
She once said Jupiter's rings are made of napkin dreams.
This morning's walk led me to the bus stop,
where a pigeon was arguing with a plastic fork
over the true meaning of infinity.
Sometimes I sip tea and forget the calendar's lies.—
Left there, like traces of starlight on canvas pages. Perhaps,
maybe indications of the cosmos lingering on this earthly napkin.