The power lines are down. We’re in the dark,
the victims of a wet, cement-like snow.
I’m pleading with my generator, “Spark!”—
its stubborn answer up to now is “No.”
I’m clumsy with small engines, and I’m slow.
My neighbors, naturally, have done it right.
Their generators thrum; their windows glow.
They’ve joined the worthy in the hum of light.

I’m reading, in a flashlight’s shaky arc,
the manual for this broken dynamo—
all warnings with an exclamation mark!
What does a chart called “Troubleshooting” show?
It won’t turn over if the oil is low;
make sure the throttle cable clamp is tight.
I lack the proper tools to be a pro
and join the worthy in the hum of light.

I pull and get a single futile bark.
Improper gas-to-dry-gas ratio?
My options here are narrowing, and stark:
I’ll have to ask my neighbor, whom I know
so well (well, well enough to call John Doe),
for help—reveal that I’m a neophyte,
a failure as a modern-day Thoreau—
to join the worthy in the hum of light.

Prince of darkness, let the power flow.
Please let this old, corrupted fuel ignite.
Unstick this carburetor. Let me go
and join the worthy in the hum of light.

Photograph by Anna Eremeeva / Alamy Stock Photo.

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