Astronomy Lesson

Alan R. Shapiro

The two boys lean out on the railing

of the front porch, looking up.

Behind them they can hear their mother

in one room watching “Name That Tune,”

their father in another watching

a Walter Cronkite Special, the TVs

turned up high and higher till they

each can’t hear the other’s show.

The older boy is saying that no matter

how many stars you counted there were

always more stars beyond them

and beyond the stars black space

going on forever in all directions,

so that even if you flew up

millions and millions of years

you’d be no closer to the end

of it than they were now

here on the porch on Tuesday night

in the middle of summer.

The younger boy can think somehow

only of his mother’s closet,

how he likes to crawl in back

behind the heavy drapery

of shirts, nightgowns and dresses,

into the sheer black where

no matter how close he holds

his hand up to his face

there’s no hand ever, no

face to hold it to.

A woman from another street

is calling to her stray cat or dog,

clapping and whistling it in,

and farther away deep in the city

sirens now and again

veer in and out of hearing.

The boys edge closer, shoulder

to shoulder now, sad Ptolemies,

the older looking up, the younger

as he thinks back straight ahead

into the black leaves of the maple

where the street lights flicker

like another watery skein of stars.

“Name That Tune” and Walter Cronkite

struggle like rough water

to rise above each other.

And the woman now comes walking

in a nightgown down the middle

of the street, clapping and

whistling, while the older boy

goes on about what light years

are, and solar winds, black holes,

and how the sun is cooling

and what will happen to

them all when it is cold.