Grid Failure

The fridge gave a final, rattling groan

then the hum evaporated from the air.

The heat is a weight I’m carrying alone,

thick enough to tangle in my hair.

The transformer blew at the end of the street

taking the fans and the porch lights down.

The house is a lung that can only repeat

the stifling, heavy pulse of the town.

I stand in the kitchen where the dark is deep,

watching the stove’s blue pilot eye.

It’s the only promise the shadows keep

while the rest of the grid prepares to die.