The Low Hum

The power cut out in the heat of the day

and the fridge stopped its rattling, rhythmic song.

The house went so quiet it felt like a gray

stretch of a road that is simply too long.

I sat on the linoleum, watching the clock

on the oven go dark as a hole in the floor.

There was no one to call and no reason to knock,

just the sound of the heat pressing hard on the door.

Dust motes are suspended in one shaft of light,

perfectly still over the coils of the stove.

It’s the weight of a Sunday that won't turn to night,

a vacuum of time in a quiet alcove.