Extension

The shop smells like a dog that’s been out in the rain.

I found the heavy plastic, a relic of the brain.

I put my finger in the nine and pulled it all the way,

feeling the gears groan for a much louder day.

The cord is a disaster, a bird’s nest made of grime,

tangled in the knots of a much slower time.

I remember my grandmother’s kitchen, the way she’d pace,

with that black snake of wire wrapped around her face.

It had a weight that mattered. It didn’t just glow.

It took a whole minute just to say hello.