A Precocious Existentialism

she had the night shift when i was little before work she put me to bed and told me a story about sad apes who locked themselves in boxes without fruit that was the only subject of any story worth telling

she left my room and the crickets chirped the stars appeared to rotate slowly around the makeshift plastic-coated wooden slide my father had built in the backyard the moon shone and small as i was i knew it was lit by the nearest star burning itself out