The Light Bulb of Cumae

You say to write a poem
you need to feel inspired.
I have this light bulb
in the center of a ceiling,
the center of a room,
that is similarly unreliable.
I flip the switch at night,
but it only comes on
if it is inspired.
Yet I don’t replace
the broken light bulb,
out of a deep respect
for its past poetry
of half-assed


Science tells us
we shouldn’t worship the sun.
It’s let us in the cold before,
wouldn’t come closer during all those ice ages
where we froze to death.
It will someday reach out
and just incinerate us
with tongues of flame.
Creator, Preserver, Destroyer.
All the God bases covered.
Call it a deity or not.
The cycles stay the same.
Everybody curses it out
or dotes on its wonderful
qualities. So it exists.
But you seriously question
whether you will ever talk
face to face.