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.

Copyright © Vassilis Zambaras, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.