A single bulb can light a life,
And two, perhaps, can light a room
and drive the darkness back,
or foster life in damp places,
behind the glass, bring the sun to
sunless spaces.
In the winter, when numbing cold
set his fingers stiff as fishsticks,
He grabbed the bulb and
squeezed, gripped the light and
felt the warmth humming in hands.
Hungry for more, eager to drive
away the winter, he gripped,
fiercely, desperately trying,
praying, feeling the tingling warmth
burn through the skin,
searing the flesh
until the glass cracks
into shards and cuts
scarlet blooms into tender fingertips.
What else to do but change the bulb?
