Pantry Hum

The bread bin gapes, a dry mouth.

The bruised apple hangs, a thought

I can’t quite stomach.

My stomach makes a sound,

a low hum, like the refrigerator’s own.

It’s a dull ache I can’t acquaint

myself with, not really, not yet.

The pantry door handle, cold metal,

offers no solace.

Just the hum, the quiet,

and this hollowness I can't defeat.