The microwave finishes its scream

The microwave finishes its scream

and the room goes back to the hum

of the vending machine’s cooling coil.

The clock above the sink has given up.

The second hand shivers at the top of the hour,

twitching like a nerve in a tired leg,

unable to make the climb.

Behind the glass, a fly is caught

against the faded curve of the eight.

It’s a dry, black husk,

anchored in kitchen grease and time.

At 8:40, the world will align with this corpse,

perfectly accurate for sixty seconds,

before the lie starts up again.