Filament

I finally found the checkbook

under a pile of mail

and a coat I forgot to hang up.

Then the glass gave a sharp click.

The kitchen went flat and gray,

that sudden, heavy drop

when the hum of the house

loses its lead singer.

I unscrewed the glass,

still hot enough to sting,

and gave it a little nudge.

The filament is a dead insect

rattling inside the jar,

a tiny, silver break

that cost me more

than I wanted to pay.