Filament Debt

[A Cappella Chorus]
The filament debt, that tungsten thread,
A hundred watts of what my grandmother said.
Don't let the dusk settle in the glass.
Just pay the bill and pray the bulb will last.

[Verse 1]
The porcelain socket's got a hairline seam, from nineteen-seventy, a fever dream.
I feel the pull-chain, cold metal beads, against my palm, planting bitter seeds.
Down on Salina, the streetlights blink, a yellow caution, makes a sane man think.
The city sold the copper from the lines last June, now the only glow's a cancer moon.
I check the breaker box, the fuses tight, thumb the grimy switch and give the porch its light.
It cuts a perfect square on the dying lawn, a safety zone from dusk until the dawn.
My breath fogs up the storm door pane, a ghost of heat against the Michigan rain.
It's just a light. A simple, household chore. That's what I tell myself. And nothing more.

[Verse 2]
But last week, a sedan was idling slow, driver's side window down in sub-zero.
I saw the tire treads the next day in the frost, a message sent for something that was lost.
The neighbor's dog won't bark when it looks my way, just whines and tucks its tail since that Tuesday.
The mailman leaves the letters on the bottom step, refuses to approach, a silent threat.
I hear the floorboards settle in the dead of night, and wonder if they're settling from weight, or just afraid.
She told me, "Son, that light's for what you wanna keep," then whispered, "and a warning for the wolves who creep."
The dust motes dance a frantic, silent script, in that one beam of light, my own reflection ripped.
I threw the shovel in the river off the pier. It doesn't mean a thing. There's nothing buried here.

[Chorus]
The filament debt, that tungsten thread,
A hundred watts of what my grandmother said.
Don't let the dusk settle in the glass.
Just pay the bill and pray the bulb will last.

[Outro]
The ground beneath the porch is soft. It never freezes right.
All winter long, I feed the night my little bit of light.