The lights flicker, steady, flicker,
disappear. I wait, but 
there is no return.

This morning we had storms,
deluge of rain, lightning,  
but electricity held.

Now it’s early evening, cool
and undramatic. Suddenly we are
powerless.

My house falls silent, dark. 
No hum of fridge, no whisper
of fan. I move myself

out to my front porch. Chair,
book, journal, glass of wine— 
ready for an evening

of spying on my neighbors.
I watch the family in the yellow house
across the street as they

load themselves into their car.
There on the steep steps
from the porch to the street is me.

A child about ten slowly descends
eyes fixed on the book she holds
open before her, absorbed,

oblivious to all admonitions
to pay attention,
hurry up.