440 Hertz

The fridge stopped its shivering an hour ago.

The dark in the kitchen is thick as wool,

so I reached for the wall, for the heavy cord,

and pulled the plastic to my skull.

There is a smudge where my ear has been

a hundred times, a ghost of grease and skin.

The line isn’t dead, but it’s nowhere near

a human voice. Just a flat, dry gin

of a sound. A 440-cycle hum

that doesn't care if I’m lonely or cold.

It’s just the grid, humming to itself

while the rest of the world is on hold.