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

To charge

My fucking phone.