A mirror ball sits on my window sill,
Small and cheap, a remnant of some party.
At day, the sun bestows an amazement-
For my room is filled with little worlds
That pepper my walls and ceiling and floor,
And dapple me delightfully with their gracious gold!
They hover and drift and pulse
At the bidding of the sun and the clouds.
The nudging breeze stimulates a scandalous stir,
The orbs pendulate precariously
In their struggle for correct geography.
I lie on my bed and reference their movements,
And think in metaphors.
At night, the ugliness of electricity
Renders the mirror ball a tacky toy,
Its powers concealed in foil and styrofoam.
Only the moon empathises,
And grants it a little glint,
A curious light of its own.
