Pilot Light

The landlord mentioned the meter in the hall,

a casual word that felt like a heavy debt.

I haven't turned the burner on at all

since Sunday night, and yet—

I stand in the kitchen, keys in my hand,

twisting the dial until it hits the stop.

I need to hear the click, to understand

the lock is holding before the shoe can drop.

I check it once, then three times more,

running late for a shift that never ends.

I’m guarding a house with a wooden door

from a phantom spark that the air intends.