Midnight Machine

Three AM, the kind of dark that swallows sound.

Woke up, listening, not a leaf on the ground.

Just the fridge, its low, constant thrum,

a white noise, like a steady, distant drum.

It's the only thing awake, or so it seems.

A mechanical lung, breathing out cold dreams.

A private concert, just for me,

this quiet, electric company.

It holds the milk, the leftovers, the wilting greens.

All the small, forgotten, domestic scenes.

And it just keeps going, through the quiet hours,

a faithful sentinel, draining its tiny powers.

While the world outside sleeps, a vast, dark sheet.

And I listen to its beat.