it’s pissing down rain hot fat globules

and a woman not young not old her hair in a scarf

she stares while I haul this giant pink lamp off the train

my mid-century monolith bought for seventy bucks

from a nice rich man on the north shore it’s fucking huge

completely impractical

its base a geometric urn of candelabra angularity

like something you might creep with through corridors

to stab your adulterous husband

I cradle it to my breast my cheek its velvet trim ribboning lunar

pleated shade the colour of hyacinth spilt pomegranate seeds

I am enamoured

the lady her mouth is a gutter gawking froglike through the storm

I thrust my lamp in the air as an object of self-explanation

don’t you see? we are both wet the lamp and me

we are both relics and we are going home yes home the first in a long while

with a courtyard and space for a piano and at least thirty meerkats

peering coyly through ceramic eyes and

yes lady over there under the umbrella under the world

I am carrying my fuckoff pink satin lamp

yes everyone I’m afraid this is it

I am entering my new life