At Table

The straight glass cylinder
Leans over, ever so slightly

As a younger man I might
Have had the certainty
The arrogance to tell you
By how many degrees

But for now let me say
Less than one or two
At least insufficient
To raise any concern

The tube sits on top of a vessel
A voluminous crystal container
For oil or paraffin, or whatever
Would cause the wick to flame

Between the vessel and the tube
There is a mechanical contraption
A geared disk, for the butler
To raise or lower the light

This controlled illumination, with fine adjustment
Is placed at the master, or his guests convenience
There to set the ambiance for their lusts fulfilment
& the more exotic forms of demonic debauchery

Today the whole device is stilled
It as been drained, washed, cared for
It sparkles clean; but it is without use
Other than to fix this writers eye