The Red Dot

The radiator is banging out a rhythm

that sounds like a hammer hitting a pipe in a well.

I’m standing over the sink

peeling the plastic off a square of orange cheese.

The clock says 3:14.

One car went by, a lone eye cutting through the dark,

gone before I could even guess the make.

Everything else is just this kitchen.

The coffee maker is off but its red light

is bleeding into a spill on the counter,

a small, glowing wound in the middle of the night.