A fallen star
Has landed on his bedroom floor
Sickly, luminous green,
Dead in the daylight.
I pick it up
With some scraps of scribbled paper,
A broken rubber band, and
Some tat from a party bag.
Above, there is a hole in a constellation
Which nobody will notice
Until the lights go out.
Nor will anyone notice
The clear floor
The straightened bed
The books replaced on the shelf.
No more than he thinks I will notice
The jumble behind his cupboard doors
And other hidden treasures
Beneath his stars.