“Naming Conventions”

You drive a yellow sedan, the color
too loud to be yours.  You take me
into town, greet your favorite establishments
as we pass: Hello, Taco Stand.  Hello, Bookstore.

In the passenger seat I tip my head,
press my face against the window.  The stars
speckle the sky like a dessert in which
I must partake. I point out my favorites:

There is Cassiopeia, there’s Orion and
his dog.  But to you the stars are random
like grains of sand left on the street
when the ice melts in the spring.  

But here is how the dirt is different:
it will disappear in time, blow down
the road, be swept away.  The stars, though,
have died, long before anyone saw them at all.