Static crackles in his Einstein hair,

if I sit close enough I can read my book by him.

 

Floors scorch beneath the soles of his feet,

no one can short circuit him.

 

Currents hum inside his skin.

comforting as a kettle boiling in another room.

 

Ideas fine as filaments ignite behind his eyes,

but by midnight he’s fading.  Moths ignore him.

 

When we lie down to sleep it is possible at last

to admire him, without shading my eyes.

 

 

 

©2007 Kate Rhodes.  Reproduced with permission of the author.