Low Battery

Three nights now.

Every 47 seconds, give or take—

I've started saying give or take

because sometimes it stretches to 50

and I notice the gap.

I know what it is.

I know where the batteries are.

I have not gotten up.

There's something about the interval—

the way it lets you almost get back under,

and then: one chirp.

High and thin.

Like a question with one answer.

I lie there counting.

Not the seconds exactly.

More like bracing

for the count to end.

The refrigerator cycles.

Something settles in the wall.

Those are continuous.

Those are just the house being a house.

This is different.

This is a small plastic disc on the ceiling

trying to tell me one thing

on a schedule I didn't set,

about a problem I already know I have,

that I have not fixed.

The red light blinks.

I can see it from the bed.

I keep waiting for it to stop

meaning what it means.