The Night the Stars Fell
We were in the way back room. We were trying to conjure up
some blood harmonies when Bobby started in talking about
how he lamented the disappearance of Mexican jumping beans.
I think this was after I was saying how I don’t believe in demons.
There was a fear that the ceiling would fall in. I told Bob a story
about how I got on the bus and tried to pay the fare, but the machine
didn’t like it and spit the money back out at me and the bus driver
said, “Sometimes it takes it, sometimes it don’t.” And that felt
very relatable to me. “Do you know this one?” Bobby asked me,
picking up his guitar. I didn’t and I asked him what it was called.
He said it was called “Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board Blues.”
We walked out onto the alley. The dumpsters had been emptied
and one blocked the door some and the stars fell all around us.
© Scott Silsbe
Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit. He now lives in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. His poems have been collected in four books: Unattended Fire, The River Underneath the City, Muskrat Friday Dinner, and Meet Me Where We Survive. He is also an editor at Low Ghost Press.
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