Grid

The transformer blew with a heavy, dull thud.

The fan slowed its blades and died in the heat.

The fridge stopped its labor, its cold metal blood

warming up as the shadows spilled into the street.

I'm sitting here watching the stove's quiet blue,

the pilot light pulsing, a small, lonely spark.

The milk is turning, the ice is coming through

the seals of the door, dripping into the dark.

The silence is huge. It fills up the hall

and pushes the air right out of the room.

I’m waiting for the click or the hum or the call

of the compressor waking up in the gloom.