Late Hour Stillness

The house sighs, a slow settling.

I open the refrigerator door,

a pale, stark light

cutting a clean line

across the dark floor.

Condensation beads on the glass I hold,

a cold circle in my palm.

The motor hums its low, steady tune,

a companion.

In the sink, a single spoon,

tarnished, sits.

Forgotten.

Waiting for a morning that feels

a long way off.