The space between the stars

We call this ‘sleeping out’ — it’s not camping —
my back yard, summer nights, sleeping bags and snacks,
talk and talk and talk and the stars.

I don’t realize it yet, but we probably aren’t friends,
the two of us; by happenstance we’re neighbors,
each the youngest in our household.

His turn to speak and once again he tells me
of that movie — his favorite — sometimes I think
it’s the only movie he’s ever seen.

He offers up the sameness of the plot, his take
in exhaustive detail, breathless with an excitement
I believe he genuinely wants me to share in,

in the violence it involves, the suspense.
The hero of the story is strong and cunning.
The hero of the story is cool.

I watch the sky and from among the stars cull
the constellations I know; Big Dipper, Little Dipper —
I find the North Star… again.
I’ve been told about Orion —

about his dog, his belt, his sword; but I’m yet to find him
up there in that scatter of light: no legend of clues
or numerals for the connect-the-dot puzzle.

With my turn to talk, I start to explain a theory
I’ve begun to evolve about art and genius
— how every movie ever made has at least one person —

someone, somewhere, who thinks it is the greatest movie
ever made. And how there are millions and millions of movies.