On Considering an Infidelity (after James Tate)

The lampshade is gossiping with the light bulb:
They are talking about darkness
early Monday morning over a cup of tea.
I have an empty milk jug
who still thinks it's last spring.
She hasn't read Kerouac, or edited your poetry.
For her the pumpkin in May
is just another sign of global warming.
I know now I don't want
a lover, need another.
A mongrel licks my toes
like a child tastes that first strawberry of the season,
and I can hear the whistle blowing;
comfortable in this warm bed.