David Hightower

SHOOTING STARS


His red Chevy convertible,
low slung, high finned,
slid to a dusty stop
with Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Great Balls of Fire”
rocking the branches overhead.
White T-shirt tucked into cuffed jeans,
hair combed back like James Dean,
a pack of cigarettes rolled in his sleeve,
he leaped over the car door
and wrestled me to the ground,
greeted my father
with an insult about hillbillies,
reached in the back
and tossed him a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Soon he fishtailed away
to seek out old friends and sweethearts.
“Be back for supper,” he called to my mother.
For the rest of that frantic week it was the same;
sudden arrivals, sudden laughter, sudden departures.
That last night after a wild ride
he gave me a sip of his beer
as we lay back
on the still warm hood of his car.
He pointed out shooting stars
but my glance was too slow.
“You have to watch the whole sky,” he said,
“Don’t look in just one place.”
When he left the next day, silence descended
and fields resumed their calm growing.
I stared across the rolling hills
seeking a last glimpse,
remembered to watch the whole, not just one place.
Between blackberry blooms white as light
clustered in their constellations beside the road,
I saw the red flash far off,
there and gone
like a shooting star.