What the Filament Did at the End

I was mid-sentence. You were on the phone.

The kitchen went orange—a half-second flare—

the filament brighter than it had known

to burn. Then the pop. Then the bare

blue of the window light across the floor.

I said hold on. Stood under the dead socket.

The frosted glass had gone dark at its core.

I found a spare in the junk drawer, picked it

out of the rubber bands and old tape.

Climbed on the chair. Unscrewed the dead one. Shook it.

Something rattled inside—the broken shape

of whatever had finally broke. I looked at it.

You said: are you there?

I said yeah. I was still on the chair.