Low Voltage

The storm took the lines at the edge of the park

and the house went down like a stone in the well.

I stood in the kitchen, tasting the dark,

until the hum returned with its electric smell.

A yellow glow crept up from the floor,

that plastic shell by the bathroom door.

It caught the dust on the baseboard edge,

a gray silt settled on a wooden ledge.

I can smell the heat of the tiny bulb,

burning off the hair and the winter dross.

It isn't enough to fill the gulf

of what I’ve gained or what I’ve lost.

But it shows the way to the sink and the glass,

a four-watt moon in a hallway of pine.

I watch the shadows of the spiders pass

and wait for the morning to tell me I’m fine.