The Light Bulb People
They watch us, from the convex
belly of incandescence.
Like babies, they slide and inch
up the cords, breaching glass
and invention, that they may inspect
and know what twists the world.
In their handheld universe, they only
tilt their heads and ponder
the curiosities of unfurling teeth.
Innocent as fingers they corset us
in light as we unknowingly perform
the odd little number for their swollen blinks,
hot and pink for the clapping.
Do they listen too? Our soft and watery
speak? Grappling at the corners
of our mumbles? Do they avail
the rotting fruit, the flies that quicken
to the bin, filching every minute
we think we are alone? Thieving
little angels, swinging on a current.
They steal like gypsies the ticks of our watch.
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