THOMAS ALVA EDISON, 1949

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.

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