The Orange Line

I tripped on it, a thick, insistent thread,

where damp backyard grass and mud were spread.

My landlord’s latest patch, a sorry sight,

a bulb strung up, to cast a temporary light.

Some quick repair, that’s never quite complete,

just barely making it, from wall to street.

It hums a low-grade current, tired and slow,

through plastic skin, where scrapes and scuff marks show.

It runs from outlet, stretched across the ground,

to flood a corner where no light is found.

Three metal prongs, pushed in with urgent might,

a fragile link against the coming night.

Always enough, but always just a bit

too strained, too taut, about to come un-knit.

Like most things, really, meant to reach and cope,

a little worn, beyond its fading hope.