They have a generator up the street
because the power flickers at a cloud.
The surging rumble proves an indiscreet
reminder of their cellar, and the crowd
of cold cadavers, propped up under loud
flourescents buzzing like a waxing hive
for Tussaud masks. When thunder comes, I dive
into a book, turn TVs up, retreat
inside my head, afraid I'll hear the drive
start up, or never start. Flicker. Repeat.