Revisionist Poetry – “The Locksmith’s Lamp” – Grand Displays of Imagination, v.2

In the basement’s single bulb—olive light—
He oils a stubborn canvas till it hums;
A moth keeps time against the lampshade’s white,
His brush translates the hush of absent drums.

He paints a woman who will never leave,
A mouth half-open, caught between a song;
The floorboards keep each night’s small, private grieve,
A stack of postcards—unsent proofs of wrong.

Impostor comes with pockets full of stones,
Whispering names he’d rather not recall;
He drops them into jars labeled with loans,
Then sets a glaze to catch the late-night fall.

Tomorrow: footsteps? Or another blank?
He signs the corner, lights a cigarette—
Leaves the window cracked, the city’s rank
A distant laugh that might be his duet.