Last one in, Shut off Lights
Jim Davis, Jr.

Steep staircase creaks.

Hands braced on basin ledge
dry porcelain skin
chipped, freckled mirror.

Two eyes from behind the bedskirt
flickering shadows on the wall
hand cupped behind flame
cheeks full of breath.

A tiny ember
atop a limp, black wick
a climbing curl of gray smoke.

Deep in the country, night birds calling.

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