Ounces of Lead

It shifted an inch on the coffee table oak,

a short, sharp buzz that nearly broke

the quiet I’ve kept since the sun went down.

I reached for the light with a heavy frown.

But the screen stayed black except for a plea

about the battery dying at ten percent, you see.

No name at the top, no words on the line,

just a smudge of my thumb on the glass’s shine.

It feels like a brick when I pick it up now,

a slab of cold silicon I can’t quite allow

to be just a tool for the weather and time.

It’s a anchor of waiting, a silent, slow crime.