Lamps
They don’t remember
Rooms they lit, books
They illuminated,
Their bulbs fresh
As apples still on the tree.
Even when their bulbs blow,
The lamps themselves
Can’t be said to be old –
They hold themselves
Too upright to be.
Coy, slightly lascivious,
They live for evenings
When in darkness
One reaches up
The skirts of their shades
And turns them on.