At night, sometimes, I lay in the bed of my pickup
and watch the stars. And yes, I know
that people only do that in country songs anymore.

It's peaceful. I pretend the people in my house aren't fighting
that they aren't wondering why I haven't come in yet,
And I lay there. Sometimes I wish on shooting stars.

And yes, I know they're really meteors
falling at one hundred sixty thousand miles an hour
eventually burning up somewhere in the atmosphere;

but that doesn't mean I can't pretend they're magic.

I look at the sky and whisper.
"I wish I could make it into Yale," I say, and
"I wish I could be prettier."

The cold metal digs into my back, but I don't move.
It feels sacrilegious to move.
And yes, I know the stars probably won't judge.

But it feels right. My body's cold, but my mind says
It's worth it just to lay here. And I'm happy. I've decided
it can't hurt for me to cover all my bases

and wish on shooting stars.