I knew who Thomas Alva was by heart;
he was always twenty-five, suspended
over my bed like a bat, though
he was really a light bulb.
Thomas must have flickered and died
about twenty-five times before Momma said
she'd had enough: I'd go blind reading
comics in that bad light. She was right,
besides, it was cheaper,
so she burned them all one night.
.
Thomas Alva, wherever you are,
you helped me with the English I know,
it was all Greek to me, though
you never knew it--
I hope you're resting
yours truly, your enlightened
incandescent soul.
(First published in Maverick Magazine 6/7)
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