The Late Shift

The microwave clock is a neon green smudge

reflected on the dark glass of the window.

I’m sitting here with a bowl of generic flakes,

listening to the refrigerator hum and shudder

like it’s trying to tell me a secret it can’t quite finish.

The spoon clicks against the side of the porcelain,

a sharp, lonely beat that feels too loud for 9:00 PM.

I used to hate the sound of someone else chewing,

the scrape of their chair, the way they’d ask about my day.

Now the silence is a heavy coat I didn't ask to wear.

I swallow the milk and wait for the heater to kick on,

just to have another voice in the room

that doesn't belong to me.