Thermostat

The power flickered while I was dreaming,

a momentary lapse in the city’s heart.

Now the microwave clock is screaming

in an electric-green stutter that won't let me start.

It’s twelve o'clock, over and over again,

a digital hitch in the kitchen air.

I open the fridge just to see when

the light will find something worth a stare.

The linoleum is cold and slightly tacky.

The refrigerator hums its one flat note.

I wait for the toaster to get snappy

and clear the stale silence from my throat.