2 AM

2 AM and I can't sleep.

The refrigerator hums.

I lie in the dark, listening deep

to the sound that never comes

to an end, just keeps

going, humming, never done.

There's a thin line of light

under the refrigerator door.

I can see it from the bed at night,

the glow I'm watching for,

the small bright

line that marks the dark.

The hum goes on.

It's been going on

for years, for months,

for every night I can't fall

into sleep, and the machine

just keeps its call,

indifferent, mechanical, keen.

The hum doesn't care

that I'm awake.

Doesn't care if I despair.

Doesn't care what I break.

It just keeps singing there,

the sound of not-sleep, not-wake.

I close my eyes.

The hum stays on.

I realize

that the machine has won,

that my tired tries

mean nothing to its song.

It would hum this way

if I was dead,

if I went away,

if I lay in bed

forever, and the day

and night just bled

together into one

long note

of the refrigerator's hum.