The White Noise of Survival

The radio dial is dark at last,

the kitchen tiles are cold and vast.

I cut the light and find the chair

and breathe the stale and empty air.

That silver box begins to moan,

a steady rattle in its bone.

It works much harder than it should

to keep the milk and butter good.

The calendar on the freezer door

casts a shadow on the floor,

shaking with the motor's strain

like a heavy heart inside a drain.

It doesn't care that I’m alone

or that the house feels like a stone.

It just keeps grinding through the night

until the world comes back to light.