Vol 9, Num 17 :: 2010.09.24 — 2010.10.07
I sit under the one looking burned out,
dimmed from thirty years of being on
for dinner, homework, games, company, movies
tired of catching electrons, casting nothing
onto my hazelnut-sweetened coffee
and an empty journal page.
The light fuzzes, a buzz of electricity
not quite focused enough
to put the filament aflame
but it breaks my concentration,
a series circuit soldered to things
begging for attention:
a ravenous yard, winterizing
the swamp cooler and sprinklers
washer with seismic lurches
broken backyard hose spigot
dripping drips from two winters ago-
And then the light lights and
I am hypnotized-
as if there was a difference between
day and night lights
as if Gatsby actually could reach
the go-get-her-green light across the bay
as if I were some electrician, electron,
a sun to my son. The light
fizzles out, switches me
back to the dim existence
of morning’s shadow,
adding the light to the list of things to fix.
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