a poem from Adam.
The Trouble with Light Bulbs
The trouble with light bulbs is not the frail
Filament, so easily shaken loose
From its rifle-ready post,
Nor the time taken to hear the electric call.
The pools of yellow light seem as eager to fall
As a stream swollen tight against
A floodgate wall, and the coils of tungsten
Burn longer than an oil fire’s black exhale.
The trouble with electric lights
Is that the day can be purchased, the hour
Lengthened, until the frightened child no longer
Fears the candle wick’s last gift of smoky sight.
We have forgotten that the gray glow of dawn
Is drawn out (like sweat to the cotton shirt)
By the activity of morning work,
And pay, instead, for sunsets on postcards.