Powerless in Town at Half-Past Nine
The pharmacist in her white coat and I
are conducting a £4.99 transaction
when the power’s cut off all over town.
With her cash tray exposed in the strange false dusk
she fumbles me five pound coins and a penny,
and tells me how lucky I am.
I’m working this out when a twilit voice calls,
‘We’re so sorry – would you all leave?’
As far as a shopper’s eye can’t see,
the rest of the shops are in twilight as well.
Shop assistants decline to assist
and shepherd customers back from their counters,
apologising for being ungracious
as shades of Schadenfreude descend.
Power being granted’s taken for granted,
acknowledged only when it won’t jump at
the finger snap of a switch or a socket.
Right now, for instance, no one can spend,
and purchasing’s the spice of life, that gives it
all its flavour. Tills have ceased chinging,
purses have clamped and jaws have fallen open.
The power to prevent has wielded itself
and preventing it wasn’t an option.
Life’s wired for such possibilities,
but possible’s not the same as frequent,
and any unlikelihood’s always likely
if no one thinks it is. (The library lends books
on chance and frequency, but its computers
are down.)
In a flash, like a blessing,
disconnections are reconnecting
and power surges in on a rush of current.
Reenergised, we get back to business,
contactlessly, with acceptable PINs,
empowered to overfill baskets and trolleys,
or say, ‘It’s nice, but no thank you.’
Power plays, power points and power showers,
so more power once more to everyone’s elbow,
tappable into omnipotently.
The balance of power has tipped in our favour,
but storing an elbowsworth might make sense,
in the light of the chance of a lights-out.
Robert Etty lives in Lincolnshire. His most recent collection, Passing the Story Down the Line, was published by Shoestring Press in 2017.