Windshields and Stars

I look up at the night sky,
through a windshield.
The deep, indigo sky, and
I look to the stars,

each a person somewhere in the world.
Are they looking
up at these same stars,
this same sky, through

a windshield?

Do they also look
in the backseat to
check if their little
brother and sister

are warm, have eaten

at least a piece of bread today?

Do they look to their mother,
who sleeps on the driver's side,
and wonder
how she let us come to this, to

the point where I can only glance

at the other souls in the sky

through a car window?

I should hope not,
I hope they are able
to sleep in their soft bed,
their stomachs full of food.

I hope that when they look

up into the night sky, they
see different stars,
different people
in other soft beds,

not a lost girl crying

behind a windshield.