Three AM the house a quiet tomb

Three AM, the house a quiet tomb,

except the kitchen, where a water drop

would build itself, a perfect, fragile bloom,

then hit the sink, a tiny, metal 'plop.'

It wasn't fast, no hurried, rushing spill,

just slow, deliberate, a tick of time

that grated on my nerves and stood quite still

until the next, a measured, liquid chime.

Like everything that's broken, needing care,

but not quite broken enough to mend.

Just hanging there, a burden in the air,

until it lets go, just to start again.