Four AM Grind

The metallic shriek, a ragged sound,

then the low rumble, shaking the ground.

Four AM, dark outside, still and deep,

while the whole world was meant to sleep.

It’s the neighbor, off to work, I guess,

but the sound, it causes me distress.

That grinding pull, the sudden bright,

a sliver of street lamp, cold and white.

It was Dad, years ago, same harsh cry,

leaving before the morning sky.

I’d hear it from my bed, the old house sway,

and know he was starting another day.

And for a second, just like that,

I’m small again, where I once sat,

listening for his car to fade away.