The Lamp: Prose Poem (updated)

The Lamp

       First be a magnificent artist and then you can do whatever, but the art must be first.  

            (Francisco de Goya)

A young father buys a 70s Beetle fender that houses a chrome front light. The man radiates the glow of restoration, but barely has the funds. He posts the finished photograph of his invention for his son. There it sits in its separateness, still, upright, neat in a corner window, balanced on a block, polished, grinded, painted to look so perfect in its skin, its dim lighting. In the darkness of a room, now a renovation, the lamp-fender glows with a dual switch of light. Low beam for warmth, or high and bright as a car might shine on a midnight run. It’s deft, intrinsic work.

    Perhaps in the lateness of night, when all is quiet, the lamp groans into ignition, twists itself away from a boy’s restless dream – grumbles, just a little – to purr toward a great expanse of naked road.