I bought my wife a new lamp
For her birthday, this white thing
Shaped like an owl, of all animals
And I’ve been regretting it ever since.
It’s not that it isn’t a nice lamp;
She gets compliments on it all the time.
Her friends will come over and see it
And they say, “Oh my, what a lovely lamp.”
Or something to that tune, and to be honest,
We’ve never had to change the bulb, not once.
So, you know, it’s not an issue of utility.
It’s the damnedest thing, really,
But whenever I wake up in the morning,
That owl is staring right at me,
In that creepy sort of way,
The way only owls can stare,
And I can’t decide if I should
Just replace it, or start
Sleeping with a gun
Beneath my pillow.
Either way, I’m in a pickle because
I don’t think owls are in season.
Posted in: Poetry