The energy substation down the street went
up in smoke—feathery tar cloud, like
the congregation of gnats at dusk
on the Platte River; a tornado of dependency.
Dark enigma, we covet you. To watch
our movies, check
our mail, look at
our faces in the mirror.
But kids make do tonight.
They light matches. They whisper to siblings
about the goblins who hide in the silhouettes
of trees. And kids will go to bed early tonight.
The sky, not the halogen
will tuck them tight between the sheets.
Parents' projected shadows on the screens of the hallway walls
loom large—Mom’s hands monumental, Dad’s chest
a mesa.
No sound machine, no alarm clock, only the voices
of neighbors can transmit into the room like
sound bytes
from another time.
