Intervals

It’s been three days of calling the super

and listening to the metal throat clear itself.

One drop every four seconds, a slow meter

that measures out the quiet of the kitchen shelf.

I lay in the dark and count the spaces,

trying to guess when the next hit will land.

It’s a rhythmic, wet ghost that erases

the heavy silence I can't quite stand.

There is a greenish-blue stain in the sink,

a copper bruise spreading over the white.

It’s a steady pulse that makes me think

of a hospital room in the middle of the night.