Howard Firkin
The only star—of course, it’s not a star—
with cred is Venus. Why? ’Coz Venus shows.
In dirty city skies, she takes the mike;
reduced to some old rock pub stage she still
gets up and stands before the lights and sings.
She doesn’t wonder where her old fans are:
the past is just another song she knows,
a song she sings but doesn’t have to like,
’coz someone listening in the darkness will.
She’s been around; she’s seen her share of things.

As things get easier, as darkness grows,
the other stars and planets deign to dip
their toes in night’s declamatory prose,
but Venus sings, alone, and curls her lip.