Dead Air

The router is a black box

of nothing.

I’ve read the ingredients

on the Cheerios twice,

noting the riboflavin

like it’s important news.

A fly is exploring the TV,

walking over the dark glass

where the dust has settled

in the shape of my own thumb.

I watch it for twenty minutes.

In the window,

the light is a thick, yellow bar

filled with floating gray specs.

They drift so slowly

they might be suspended

by invisible, heavy strings,

waiting for the world

to finally start again.