When something in the nighttime sky
Is special — say, a comet nigh —
The paper prints a chart that’s fine
Which always shows horizon line
Depicting little house alone;
A barn or tree is often shown,
And tiny church with pointy steeple
With silhouettes of several people.
But outside, I horizon-glance:
There’s none of that! I look askance;
The map shows stellar marvel — darn!
As right above that little barn.
In vain I peer for barn to see,
Or even that distinctive tree.
And so I quit — no use this night —
What hope have I to see this sight?