Passing Stars

The stars were dying. It was as simple as that.
An obituary printed right into the sky,
In block letters.
Like faded diamonds pinned unto a plunging
Neckline, nothing for the artist. Nothing even,
For the New York Times, the paparazzi
Whose bowtie was really a camera.

The stars were dying, and the man without an ear was
Already dead. Their passing meant nothing.
No letters to the editor, not even a song
For Lucy. And the girl behind the magazine counter
Smiled.
Her future was free, her astrologist, fired.

-Mallika Leuzinger