I live in a home with unreliable outlets
The residential equivalent of a housewife stretched too thin
With awkward holes in her psyche patched one too many times
With bouts of Botox and alprazolam
Half these ports don't work at all
Their half-assed casings centimeters too distant
To allow security in meeting hopeful, metallic prongs.
Anxiety this season: amplified
By the semi-frequent inability to trust in guaranteed renwal
To arrive home and station
My phone by the door
And return hours later
To find: Ten percent. Again.
And grapple with frustration seizing my soul; the exact tightness in my chest
I wish that cellular jack had enjoyed
Against a plastic wall.
Mid-way through these thirty-one days we are riddled with chagrin
Inconsequential news sources have ultimately, assuredly undermined one another
The result an altered loop of mundane day-to-day's
I want to catch up
Find some solace in the shamble of a system
And most of all
I really just want
My fucking phone.