Surge

The power is out,
the house quiet
but for the storm.

Too early for bed,
at least while the
flashlight holds.

Then we’ll brush our teeth in the dark,
slip between icy sheets
and rest our eyes against the black.

I thought I might need a quilt,
but Fannie sought my lap,
a living, purring heating pad.

Anticipating, each time the
power snapped off and on,
stopping and starting my heart.

Is this it? The day, the week
without lamplight and gas heat?
Cold food best hot

and towels that won’t dry,
my skin chilled
and all of me less than fresh.

Is this – clink, blip –
in less than an hour
the power whirrs on.

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