A daughter holds your shirt pocket
and you tuck her in the seams
to keep her small
night worries at bay. Sing
a child to sleep like they do in Hollywood
or heaven. YOUR NAME in lights, ether,
neon you. Only you can’t carry
worries or tunes. On earth, supposedly,
they roll credits
where credit is due. Is this
what you wanted? To hold a star
in both hands at once? To leave
one hallway for another?
Place the daughter
into your shirt pocket, a mint from post-
production. An unopened life
saver, saved
shrink-wrapped, fathered. You splice
another frame in which a boy
is given two pistols
for the picture. New
Jersey cowboy. There is dust
on the memory, the negative
developed with fingerprints. Exposed, it dances
out of step. The boy falls, protecting
his fists, your fists, empty,
full of projection,
worried stars.