Low Hum

The front door didn’t just close; it bit the frame,

leaving a ringing in the hallway that feels like a name.

I’m standing over the sink where the sauce is turning cold,

watching the pasta stiffen and the story go untold.

Two plates sit like islands on the granite shore,

and neither of us is hungry for the other anymore.

There is a skin forming on the red, a dull and waxy film,

while the house settles back into its hollow, quiet realm.

The kettle is still whistling a thin and jagged note,

a sharp, silver needle scratching at my throat.

No one wants to be the one to turn the burner down,

or be the first to move and break this heavy, plastic town.