Census of streetlamps

Someone switches on the streetlamps all at once, every one together, like handing the same coin to all the poor.

And the street accepts that handout of yellow light, and the dogs accept it, and those coming home late from the second job accept it without looking.

I have taken the census: the lamp at number 14 flickers, the one in the park lights an empty bench with a devotion many loves would envy; the one on my corner has spent years holding up the same night.

Nobody thanks them. That too they have in common with certain mothers, with certain quiet men, with everything that gives light out of habit and goes out without anyone noting down the hour.