The Ritual

At early dusk, full of mysteries

it is placed on the kitchen table.

The cap,

opened to fill the can with fuel

             then turned tightly closed,

allows air pumped through it to fill the can.

The mantles,

            hard clumsy shiny cloth

            burnt into delicate gossamer

            a mere touch destroys,

glows piercingly bright

            as turned knob releases the gas.

Hung in the center of the lean to

the gas lamp’s hissing brilliance gathers us

in its brief evening light.