The Sound It Makes

The repairman has a clipboard and a heavy sigh.

He listens to the kitchen’s humming chest

and tells me it’s fine, it’s just the wind going by,

while I’m standing there like a failing test.

I tried to tell him it screams in the night,

a high, metallic whine like a bird in a trap.

He looks at the floor, he looks at the light,

and checks his watch while I close the gap.

My hands started shaking, just pointing at air,

and I realized I’ve lost the shape of the truth.

If he can’t hear the rattling under the chair,

then I must be the one who’s gone loose in the tooth.