The Silent Circuit

The hallway ceiling is holding its breath,

a yellowing bruise that looks like death.

I walked three blocks to the iron gate

to tell the man it’s getting late.

But the buzzer’s plastic face is gone,

a hollow skull in the gray of dawn.

A dead wasp curls in the copper wire,

dried out and small as a spent desire.

I pressed the metal but nothing stirred,

no heavy footstep, no muffled word.

Just the sound of the rain starting to fall

on the tea-stained bulge in my kitchen wall.