Third Shift Hunger

The hum of the compressor is the only lung

in this cinderblock room.

Three A.M. and the fluorescent tube overhead

flickers a Morse code for being tired.

I punched in C-4 and watched the silver spiral

groan through half a turn,

hanging my peanut butter crackers

at a sharp forty-five against the smudged glass.

They look like a man leaning out a window,

trying to decide if the air

is worth the fall.

I press my forehead to the cold pane

and wait for a vibration that never comes.