Two Prong

I pulled the shelf away to paint

and found it—two-prong, no ground,

old wiring. A faint

rectangle of clean wall around

the socket where the dust had never been.

Yellowed face of plastic, unseen

for years. I held the tester to the slot.

Orange light. Still live. Still got

current in the copper, threading

through the walls and heading

somewhere no one's asked it to arrive.

My mother's house is full of this.

Since my father died she boxed

the lamp, the radio—didn't miss

a cord. The outlets, locked

in every wall, still carry what

they always carried. The wiring's not

aware he's gone. It runs the circuit

like an errand no one sent it on.

I don't call enough.

Same socket. Same dust on the prongs.

I pushed the shelf back to the wall.

The outlet's there behind the books,

current running through it all,

and nobody looks.