The Low Hum

The microwave is far too loud tonight,

so I eat the pasta cold and in the dark.

The fork against the plastic feels too bright,

each little scrape a loud and tiny spark.

The fridge gives out a final, dying groan

and leaves me with the silence of the wall.

It’s better when I’m sitting here alone

than trying to make sense of it at all.

A single blue flame flickers on the stove,

a pilot light I forgot to click to ‘off’.

I’m watching it from this quiet, tiled cove

until I’m startled by a neighbor’s cough.