In praise of gasmen I've never met

Credit

The streetlights come on in a single sweep,
anonymous hands have turned on a switch
or maybe they're not hands - a sensor keeps
tabs on lumen levels - a drop, a smidge
of twilight means it's time to turn things on,
then nip them closed when dark fades into dawn.


Fancy names I have often heard these called,
this dusting of lights at the waters' edge,
but that's not top of mind. Stories told, retold
- gasmen, another street, a different stretch
of water, and time, each light lit one by one,
turned off singly too, when their work was done.

Less grand. Less automated. More in tune
with the soft drapes of the dark, stars and moon.

Pearls, beads, and wisdom

My final farewell is watching

the work of a known artisan -

the beads threaded on a string,

the silk knotted after each one.

I dither over a pendant - 

it seems somewhat expensive

ultramarine with dark accents

left matte by the gem-smiths.

He sees me drop the item,

“Madame, don’t look so upset,

there is always a next time

for reworking stones and budgets.”

I pay for what I’ve purchased

and quietly leave the old shop;

For me there will be no next,

no rewrites, the time is up.