-of men, in particular, naming stars as gifts to loved ones, women, in particular-

at night when we look to the stars,––

not the planets, mind you, or the moon, but the stars,–

each star appears to be not substantially larger than the others,

all possessing much the same sweltering circumstance, pathology,

physics, fatal chemistry, and life-spans when measured against

the span of our own puny Sun, that yellow dwarf which

allows us our existence, our puny human lifetimes,–– and of course

I’m excluding actual size differentials, distances, densities, and varying

luminosities here, but this is the poem I'm presenting, you see.

so when hubby or boyfriend or lover or uncle or stalker, hands you

on your special day, a "Certificate of Authenticity" claiming that

a particular star on a stupid celestial map which looks to be drawn

by the hand of Donald J. Trump, that has your name on the star,

knock his ridiculous, lyin'-ass, bullshitting block off!