Night In, Light Out

An hour into Scarface
(for the fifteenth time)
the power cuts

and the sloping Bolivian hills
snap into darkness.

The silence thrills us;
it hits like a car crash.
We slowly clank into action.

You use your phone light to find the fuse box –
Who owns a torch these days?
I light a candle:
the one in the burnt yellow glass
and look out the window
at the street in pitch.

I imagine our neighbours in the dark
arms outstretched, like swimmers,
reaching for lighters and batteries –
whatever glimmers.

I wonder about kids crying,
dinners spoiled,
and hands
feeling in the dark.

After a while, still nothing:
no spark. We step outside.

The night is balmy –
the bricks hold the heat of the day
and it floods back into the house.

I fetch beers from the warm fridge.
The bulb is out so I feel for the tins:
I know where they are
and grab a few.

Outside you’re looking up
and I at you.