Poem 15

I didn't write this until long after the electricity was back on.

The Third Night without Power

There’s enough light on the desk
to see the matches and candle.
I’ll need that light
with the lines drooping
like sleepers’ fingers
under the branches
and trunks torn down
by air that worked in the night.
Tired of all that labor,
the town holds its breath.

Even in the dusk
before the candles,
I'm alone at my desk
looking across the lot
getting ready for another night
on the flickering pages
of Johnny Tremain.

The white lines below
that used to glow under street lamps
fizzle into the asphalt.
I falter, match head
to the friction of the book.
In three tries--
better than yesterday--
I forget the 20th century
and accept the wick.

One by one,
as a race
the renters across from me
light dim stars
two or three,
one at a time.
Their candles chase
the night into corners.
Their doorways disappear.

The sky joins us,
trying it's best
with all those tiny lights.