Parallel

He’s young, the electrician, still remembering
all he’s been taught on wiring logic,
how there’s order in power, and each home
holds it close.  There are diagrams which work,
yielding an explanation.  Every fault
can be corrected.  Replace the blown-out fuse
and all’s forgiven once the bill’s paid up.
The radio hums, the lights drive back the dark.

So when his college answers fail, after
he’s double-checked each circuit, all the points,
you boil the kettle (gas) and sit him down,
recalling milk, two sugars, and begin
exploring that alternative he’s yet to meet:
this house running in parallel, the cellar.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.