Static Constant

The compressor kicks in with a shudder and thud,

a low-frequency moan through the floor.

It’s the sound of the house’s mechanical blood

circulating behind the white door.

A glass of cold milk on the uppermost wire

is trembling in time to the beat.

It’s a song for the weary who never can tire,

a rhythm for those who can’t eat.

Then the grid took a breath and the motor went still,

and the silence was loud as a scream.

I stood in the kitchen, gripped by the chill,

waking up from a mechanical dream.