Overhead Grind

That grinding noise, a slow complaint,

like rusty gears, unwilling, faint

at first, then rising, harsh and loud,

a metal shriek, within a shroud

of dark.

It groans, it lifts, it scrapes the air,

a concrete slab of nothing there

but shadow, then it drops, a sigh,

then stops.

Always a signal, someone's here or gone,

a promise or a dread, until the dawn.

My chest tightens, a reflex, quick and deep,

while everyone else is fast asleep.