A Few More Sparks

A bit of the ceiling has fallen in,
allowing light, just enough to see
the abandoned room.
Concrete floors covered now with dirt and papers.
You check the date to see how long it has been.

Longer than you imagined. Since the abandonment.
The room is full of sadness. There is no telling
just what it was, once. Simply a room built
Of concrete blocks and old wiring. Mostly dark,
a little mysterious.

There is a power box on the wall,
right under the collapsed ceiling.
The one beam of light points the way and you walk
to the box, reach for it, wondering if you are mad,
a not unlikely possibility considering your own journey,

your own periods of abandonment. You hesistate,
knowing that playing with electricity can backfire.
You have the burn marks to prove it, but
it is perhaps your worst habit, this belief in light
in the absence of evidence.

You pull the lever on the power box
and there are sparks along the wall.
Dangerous and beautiful for just a moment.
But in the end, no light. nothing works.
Eventually the sparks stop completely
and you are satisfied. No matter the result,
you made the attempt.

About this poem

My good friends know I have a weakness for old abandoned factories and buildings. The picture here is from an abandoned Air Force Base on Cape Cod, for instance. Those same friends know I tend to fiddle with what I find. I kind of do the same thing with people.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom