Bellows

The fridge cut out at three.

The hum just died away.

I lay there in the heavy dark

with nothing left to say.

I held my chest quite still

to hear if the clock still ticked.

The silence was a thick, gray wool

where the cold and quiet mixed.

Then came the tiny sound,

a whistle thin and dry.

A little flute inside my nose

asking for a why.

In and out it goes,

a rhythm I don't own.

The only engine left to run

now that I’m alone.