Transformers + Outage

In the house where the transformers blew regularly. A deep pop from the far side of the block and we were powerless. Left in the dark, stumbling cautiously letting the patter of rain drops be a brail guide to our ears. The gas stove sustaining us at meal time. Sometimes only a minute, sometimes hours, a few times days, some time in the house where the transformers blew regularly and found the routine. How quickly you did not need power, a calmness without the humble buzzing of the fridge. Shifting to analog, to paper pages or decks of cards. Gathering near the candle light, uncertain where the shadows are cast. When the transformers blew we became neighbors, on the steps looking out between the sideways windwhipped rain for the culprit. Then shrugging and waving ourselves back inside, into our dark homes, to be quiet and wait for power.