Three AM Grind, Or, The Door's Deep Sigh

It rips, that sound,

the quiet skin of night.

Three AM. Not a car starting,

not the leaving kind of noise,

just that rough, electric moan.

My heart kicks,

a small, trapped bird against my ribs.

Then the slow, scraping ascent,

metal on metal,

a groan from something old and tired.

A brief rectangle of light,

yellow, sickly, spills across the asphalt,

wet with dew, then disappears

as the door, with a reluctant sigh,

grinds back down.

And that final, solid thud.

Like a fist. Like a secret.

Like someone just locked away

the morning.

And I'm left, upright in bed,

listening to the dark,

to the space that sound

left behind.

Knowing someone else is up,

just like me,

doing something they don't want

anyone to see.