The plastic stars

I sleep in the room with the plastic stars,
Feeling like Abram as I drift off to sleep.

Their light is fading as, unconscious, I lie there.
My bed is too small to roll over in without scooting.

My world is full of plastic glow-in-the-dark spiders,
electric rams and burning bushes that charge while the lights are on,
dying slowly as they give off a quickly failing echo of what they have consumed.
Even now, the stars are burning out.

I could move.
I could sleep on the queen-sized air mattress in the other room.
That would change my view of the heavens,
But seeing nothing hardly seems fair to me,
For even in the pale green stars there is that reminder,
Of soon to be Father Abram
Numbering them,
Giving up,
Finding a promise,
And a new syllable added to his name.

(Come the spring, I'm going camping.)