Holding Pattern

The fridge has a hum like a distant engine

And the kitchen is thick with the smell of old bread.

It’s three in the morning, a quiet convention

Of all the things I should have just left unsaid.

The battery is dying inside of the wall,

The clock is a motor that’s starting to grind.

I’m waiting for something, for anything at all,

To settle the gears in the back of my mind.

The second hand hits the six and stays,

A thin red needle shivering in place.

It’s trying to move through the dark and the haze

But it can’t find the strength to leave its own face.