Reach

The lamp is brass-plated and reeks of a basement.

I want it here, by the chair with the torn arm,

but the builder decided I didn't need light

anywhere but the center of the ceiling.

I found the orange cord in the back,

still heavy with the red mud of the old yard.

It’s meant for hedge trimmers and floods,

not for a living room where I try to be still.

The grounding pin is snapped off short.

I shove the two teeth into the wall

and wait for the spark, for the smell of ozone,

for the distance to finally close.