Three times we lost power this afternoon,

upending an entire hotel’s worth of people

in the span of ten minutes trapped

under the vexation of 

raindrops as large as thumbs.

The outage may have lasted

less than an hour altogether,

but I found it a useful gesture

to think about what others do

when they have their power ripped 

from the neighboring and familiar net.

I always bring a book for times like these,

and I rarely ever read it,

but our talk turned to the future instead,

turned towards what dinner and the evening had become,

turned to the next to not think about the now. 

Some people ran through the halls— 

in fun or in fright, I will never know—

while others slept through the storm 

as my body begged me to do.

Still others amassed as one community

in the openness of the brief lobby, 

playing games or filling the space 

where light normally dwelt 

with words kept saved for eventualities.

So many responses to the same shared event,

and all of them right

for the worlds caught within

the eyes of people seeing the same society

lit only by sunlight. 

Now when I hope to understand someone,

I feel their answer to what they do

when the power goes out

will tell me everything I need to know about them.