Four Hours of Nothing On

The microwave clock went dark mid-show,

mid-sentence, mid-Tuesday — then the street,

the orange-on-wet-pavement glow

I hadn't known I needed. Gone. Complete.

I sat on the couch and listened to the rain

hit the window in that loose, half-absent way

it does when there's no rhythm, no refrain,

just water with nothing particular to say.

Four hours. I know that isn't long.

I know people lose more, and worse.

But the whole block went dark, and something felt wrong

in a way I couldn't put into verse —

I kept waiting to hear myself think clearly.

The rain on the glass. The kitchen faucet's drip.

The apartment doing nothing, sincerely.

The couch and me, the dark, no grip.