THE GREAT BLACKOUT

Flickering streetlamps
that November evening chilly
dim brown
then darker still
in the parking lot
of the motel we call home,
we stop our racing game with the ball
and find Mother
in the kitchenette
with one burner cooling
the muddy light overhead
and the big room with the beds
and cots strangely rumpled
after that quick
cross-country trip
darkens with each thump of
our hearts
and we blink into black as
the grid tumbles
relay by relay
town by city by town
joining the millions of star-lost;
we hold our ball
and our words while
Mother finds a candle
a transistor radio
and the soup sits cooling fast.