Bridge to the Outlet

The orange snake coils across the floor,

a heavy, industrial vein of heat.

It starts in the kitchen, under the grease,

and ends where the space heater rattles.

I tripped on it when the lights went out.

My hands hit the floorboards, finding

the three-prong plug in the dark,

coated in a fur of gray dust and hair.

It is an ugly way to live, this tethering.

One room borrowing life from another

through a plastic tube that smells like

warm copper and old neglect.