The Third Hour

The house has a rhythm you only hear

when you’ve missed the exit for sleep.

The refrigerator motor kicks over, a gear

grinding out a promise it can't really keep.

I’ve mapped the crack in the ceiling plaster,

a slow, jagged vein in the dark above my head.

The clock on the wall isn't moving any faster

just because I’m rotting in the middle of the bed.

High in the corner, a small, square eye

watches the room with a steady green light.

The smoke detector doesn't care if I die

or if I just sit here and swallow the night.