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.