Planetarium Janitor at Dawn

I sweep the dark after the children leave, constellations chalked in breath on the dome. Dust lifts like slow galaxies from the broom, each bristle combing midnight out of morning.

In the projector's throat, old stars still hum, metal warm as a held secret. Jupiter rolls across a bucket of water, and the mop wrings out rings of pale Saturn.

Outside, buses open their bright mouths, coffee steam climbs the station glass. I carry Orion folded in a trash bag, his belt of foil tickets flashing once, then gone.

By sunrise the ceiling is only plaster, a white sky waiting to be named. Still, in my pockets, a little glitter of north, enough to find home through ordinary streets.