In the Dark
I'm having this problem, see,
changing a light bulb in the ceiling
the ladder is a bit wobbly, the window
too close to the ladder, so I flatten the ladder
against the wall but then I can't reach the light bulb,
I could stand on the counter but I might slip, no, the ladder
is the best strategy, but—here's the irony—it's dusk and I can't
see to change the light bulb, I should have done this earlier, but I was at
the library trying to copy an important legal document which may or may not
determine my final wishes, but I ran out of dimes, so I stopped at the corner tavern
to mooch a few coins, the game—the game—who can leave during the fourth quarter, then
sudden death, so you can see I'm having this problem changing a light bulb in the ceiling, then
I hear the news, the news, it's Darfur, I don't know where that is but there's a fund established
by celebrities, and the endless body count in Iraq, the drove of global warnings, what do you
expect from someone who is having a problem changing a light bulb, what can I do about
these disasters heralded in every edition of the morning news, every evening somber
stones of stories at dinnertime, I stiffen at the thought of my incompetence and
guilt as if some parent tap, tap, taps his foot impatiently while I blather on
about the light bulb, children are starving, soldiers are dying, the earth is
gray with ash, scarred from pole to pole, I can't seem to maneuver
the ladder back into the garage until morning when it's light
and I can see, so I leave it against the wall; I'm having
this problem, see, it's like this, a burned out 100
watt light bulb, all this electricity, and the
ladder, the wall, the window, the
library, the tavern, my
incomplete world
so dark and
utterly
small.
