High Among the Sad Stars by Troy Schoultz

It’s 2:45 in the morning. I’m sitting at the kitchen table

In the dark. A handful of years ago I would be drinking

Whatever bottles I remembered that I had hidden from myself,

Staring out the dark window, hoping to spot a meteor, gaining insight

As alcohol seeped my blood like sweet lava.

These days I’m awake because its simply hard to sleep

And my head doesn’t require liquid prodding.

Some say it’s a bad thing to think too much,

But at this hour how can one not?

Gravity and age bids this house to talk to itself

As hushed slide of traffic eases onto the interstate.

It’s weird and difficult being aware you’re alive,

Expressionless face in the bathroom mirror, trying to catch a glimpse

Of traces of a soul in your own eyes, aware that this will all end

Eventually. It reminds me of something

My friend Pete said.

Four men walk into a tavern, two saviors exit.

He tends to blurt out these non-sequiturs,

And they always seem genius.

I hope I die before him.

How dull it would be without someone to say such things

With or without an insomniac night to consider them,

Nothing moving high amongst the sad stars

Except that painful construct we call time.

Troy Schoultz is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. His poems, stories, and reviews have appeared in Seattle Review, Rattle, Slipstream, Chiron Review, Word Riot, Fish Drum, The Great American Poetry Show, Steel Toe Review, Midwestern Gothic and many others since 1997. His interests and influences include rock and roll, vinyl LPs, found objects, the paranormal, abandoned places, folklore, old cemeteries and the number five. He is the author of two full length collections and two chapbooks