Celebrities are rich, like dark chocolate baked inside bread pudding.

Critics call them stars as if they gaze down on Earth;

Placed in the heavens by a director

whose just given orders to a waitress on the loudspeaker read raspy

“Bring me a box set of albums from an artist I’ve never met!”

The embedded expectation in this demand is a holler that stretches my throat each spring.

Who will celebrate constellations

And trace the patterns of pinpricks in our night sky