Alone with one lamp <br />I bite into the red pearl of a nectarine. <br />It’s been a year of lay-offs, impulsive <br />travels, and birth <br />of a daughter. I work <br />here all night in the garage <br />full of books, all night <br />with one lamp, with spiders <br />and moths, their sudden <br />unacknowledged deaths, <br />their births that are always hidden. <br />I work alongside of broken ironing boards, <br />boxes full of forgotten stuff, and a mirror <br />with three sides of the frame gone— <br />and how the remaining <br />part is connected <br />I do not know. The garage <br />is connected to the garden. I sense <br />the avocadoes ripening and the ring lines <br />growing inside the tree. A few of the late <br />leaves have started turning alongside of <br />the ripened fruit, outside of <br />my peculiar ripening, in here, <br />among the faded backs of the folding chairs, <br />and my notebooks with wire spirals coming undone. <br />I sit in here facing the medley of interiors I prefer, <br />unthreading myself along the way.<br /><br />Doren Robbins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-night-in-july-love-poem/
