Dead Air

The router is dead with a single red eye.

The afternoon is a long, hollow sigh.

I’m sitting on the mattress, counting the rent,

watching the way the quiet hours are spent.

The fan is a clock that forgot how to chime,

dragging its blades through the grease of the time.

Each layer of dust is a debt I didn't pay,

a grey skin settling over the day.

The air has a weight that I can't quite afford,

the thick, heavy sound of being bored.