Three AM Chirp

The night's thick quiet, then a sound,

a high-pitched, cutting, small round

insistence. Three AM. The walls

contract. It chirps, then falls

to silence. I count the beats.

Then it returns, between the sheets,

a tiny, terrible, metal voice.

No ladder, no other choice.

It’s on the ceiling, red light blinks.

My mind, half-sleep, just sinks.

Thirty seconds, a cruel clock.

Just listen to the plastic knock.

A battery dying, a slow dread.

I pull the pillow over my head.

It still gets through, a drill,

a tiny, sharp, mechanical will.