The Stringlights

On a weekend where no one

had plans to make

or plans to give

and mom and dad were doing there own thing

(though dad left me a gift in the crisper drawer

of the fridge)

(a 24 oz. of PBR)

I dug through old boxes

stuff to be thrown out, left from

grandmas old house.

And found sets of string lights

still in the box

perhaps older than me.

One of them blinked to Christmas songs

that you couldn't hear.

A few had large chalky bulbs

with some clear replacements

for the dull colors

of which I meticulously unscrewed

and recrewed

and unscrewed

and recrewed

until there was a healthy variety.

And I moved the furniture,

arranged the strands on the floor,

blasted ska punk from my speaker,

and got on the latter.

And I got off and on that latter and moved it a couple feet

and did so again and again

until I was sweating through my clothes

and the sun was setting

until the celling was covered.

There was no one to celebrate with in the moment.

But it was worth waiting.

Done