The Refrigerator's Hum

The house is asleep, or pretending.

Only the fridge hums, a low thrum

that’s become the new heartbeat.

Blue numbers on the microwave glow

a thin, cold line.

I’m standing here.

A glass of water sweats on the counter,

a small landscape of beads

I don’t have the strength to wipe away.

Just the light, the hum, the water.

Waiting for nothing in particular.