Ceiling Stars

The radiator back home hissed and died,

so I’m back in the twin bed, narrow and short.

The air is stagnant, the wallpaper dried

to the color of a stale, yellowed thought.

I shove the window sash with my palm,

but the wood is a swollen, stubborn block.

The frame won't give. There is no calm

in the heavy, humid turn of the lock.

Above me, the stars are peeling away,

dead plastic scabs on a field of white.

They don't glow now, just rot in the gray,

holding the ghost of a different night.