Listening

At three in the morning it changed.

The sound shifted lower.

Everything suddenly arranged

around the fact that something's over.

I've heard it every night since then.

Lying awake. Listening close.

Trying to figure out when

this started. When I lost

the ability to pretend

that things don't break.

That I won't have to spend

money I don't make.

The hum travels through the wall.

Through my bed. Into my chest.

I can feel it. I can feel the call

to fix something. I can't rest.

It's been making this sound for weeks.

I just noticed it last night.

But it was already speaking

before I turned on the light.

Which means I let it die.

Which means I ignored the signs.

Which means when I have to buy

a new one, it's mine.

All mine. The cost. The failure.

The sound of something giving up.

The way I've been the sailor

who watched the ship sink. I can't stop

listening. The hum is still there.

And I'm still awake.

And the refrigerator doesn't care

that I'm beginning to break.