Intervals

The storm took the streetlights

and left the kitchen in a shroud.

The fridge stopped its low, steady hum

and the silence is suddenly loud.

But the clock on the wall didn't quit.

I can hear the plastic hand click,

a hesitation right at the twelve,

a mechanical, rhythmic tick.

It measures the dark in the room

while I wait for the heat to come back,

counting the seconds like beads

on a string that is starting to slack.