The Generator Hymn

When the city goes dark all at once,

the generators answer —

a choir with one gruff voice,

sung in a dozen different yards.

It is not beautiful, this hymn.

It smells of fuel and small mercies.

But it means someone's rice will finish cooking.

It means a child's book stays open a little longer.

We have learned to sleep inside its roar,

to dream in spite of the noise,

to call this survival a kind of music

because it keeps the dark from winning outright.