the last light bulb 

everyone is always saying "i remember when."
nostalgia demands butter & throats.
this is to say, i remember when
they grew on trees. when, in a moment
of darkness we would go out with 
our open palms & return with enough bulbs
to make a new sun. the problem with 
looking back is it's always a miniature lie. 
the trees sung during storms. threw their eyes
at the gravel driveway. begged us, "learn
to speak into the shadow."
i cry but only gumballs come out.
then, only little prizes wrapped in plastic. 
the gathering begins after dusk.
word passed from knuckle to knuckle
then tooth to tooth. 
there is one more bulb alight on a sycamore tree.
the shadows stretch the length
of every hunger we've ever had. we follow it.
like moths. like disasters. like fodder fish
to the angler's question. how will 
you use your light? this is something
no one ever asked me. so, i spent as much
as i could on windows. on pine sol & 
trumpets. there is a new religion 
for the final bulb. they worship without eyes.
fill their sockets with replicas of dim lightbulbs.
i am told if you are not careful
you will begin to worship the past.
i hold up my hand in the glow 
of the bulb. see the shadow, an unfettered spider
reaching for a breath of absent gold.