Load Shedding, Stage Who-Knows

You say the lights will learn to love the black,
the kettle waits; the inverter’s primed to keep.
But every promise hums and then goes slack.

Count the beeps that stitch the evening back,
the fridge sweats brine; the passage slips to sleep—
you say the lights will learn to love the black.

The WhatsApp map makes islands, faint and slack;
our yard is sea, next door is lit and deep—
but every promise hums and then goes slack.

A candle tunnels hours into a track;
the genny’s talk grows oily, low, and steep.
You say the lights will learn to love the black.

We play at rummy; time becomes a stack:
the kettle shivers, quiets into the deep—
but every promise hums and then goes slack.

At four the hum returns, a shy clack-clack;
we laugh too loud; the bulbs blink once, then keep.
You say the lights will learn to love the black,
but every promise hums and then goes slack.