The Lampshade
A poem.
In the upstairs room, a lampshade is strewn;
Spattering languid light; tinted a crimson hue.
A thornless twig pokes a shadow through,
one piteous, wretched window.
A witness; silent, too.
The kettle whistles for a serving of two,
thrashing its liquids of ash and pepper, too:
One for the one who trophies the shade,
And one for the one whose traces remain.
In the upstairs room, a lampshade is strewn.