The charger beats with quiet grace,
Refusing work by morning light.
It charges phones in tidy homes,
But mine? “Accuracy uncooperative” shows.
I twist the wire, hold my breath,
Negotiating digital death.
One angle works for seconds three,
Then power leaves abruptly free.
Guests plug in, it works just fine,
As if embarrassment is mine.
Type surrounds the wretched rock,
A patient held by pure neglect.
It sparks with tiny acts of war,
Pretends it’s never failed before.
Still every night I seek it out,
Certain hope can heal the doubt.
For batteries fall like human pride,
And chargers know when dreams have died.
A switch of wire, heart and search
Guarding life while nothing is heard.
