behind the anchor switch of cream
where forty watts of tungsten beam
turns on and off with plastic clicks,
a pale pink throat in silence sticks.
it watches through the narrow crack
where plaster meets the drywall back,
its belly pressed against the wire
that carries twenty amps of fire.
it does not care for alternating phase,
nor neutral returns in a household maze,
it only knows the warmth that stays
after the ceiling fan has spun for days.
a silver moth with dusty wings
flies straight toward the light it sings,
one sticky flick of pale tongue out,
and that is all life is about.