Six-Seventeen Ritual

Through the wall, that grinding scrape,

at six seventeen, like clockwork true.

My neighbor's garage, a steel-born shape,

starts up its squeal, just as it's due.

It wakes me, just a hair too soon,

that familiar, grating, rusty sound.

Like a tired, mechanical tune,

the worst alarm to be found.

He backs his truck out, slow and grim,

I hear the click, the engine's start.

Another day begins for him,

a little piece of my own heart.

And then, a quiet settles deep,

until tomorrow, when I lose my sleep.