Low Battery

The ceiling is chirping a high, lonely note

that cuts through the dream of a boat and a lake.

I stand on a chair in my old winter coat,

trying to find which one is wide awake.

A green light blinks, a cynical, tiny eye,

watching me wobble on the yellowed wood.

It’s a warning of a fire that isn't nearby,

a panic for a danger misunderstood.

I twist the plastic housing until it gives,

holding the battery like a warm, dead bird.

It’s quiet now, but nobody truly lives

without fearing the next alarm they haven't heard.