The Wick's Resistance

The grid has failed and left me in the dark

with matches damp from some forgotten spill.

I strike the box but cannot find the spark,

I’m fumbling through the drawer against my will.

I find a birthday candle, striped and small,

a festive ghost from years I can't quite place.

I light the stub and watch the shadows crawl

across the kitchen’s unfamiliar face.

The paraffin begins its heavy flow,

a slow, white tongue that licks the saucer’s rim.

It’s embarrassing how much I need the glow,

how quickly all my confidence goes dim

without the hum of circuits in the wall.

I watch the wax, a puddle thick and wide,

and wait for nothing, or for someone’s call,

with no more battery or place to hide.