Waiting for the Hum

The router died when the thunder rolled.

Now the house is a hollow bone,

and I am the marrow, sitting cold

in a silence I should have known.

I’ve watched the ceiling fan blades stay still

for three hours, maybe more,

until the quiet becomes a physical chill

and the shadows stretch across the floor.

Dust motes hang in a stagnant shaft

of gray light from the window pane.

I am sinking in this heavy draft,

listening to the nothingness of the rain.