Two A.M., the Kettle

TWO A.M., THE KETTLE I have learned the sound it makes before the sound it makes — that low complaint, the gathering, the way water decides all at once to become something else. I stand here in a shirt that used to be yours. The tile is cold the way honesty is cold, factual against the soles of my feet. There is no tea I actually want. There is only the wanting of an errand, a reason to be vertical at this hour, a small machine to wait on. THE FRIDGE HUM The fridge keeps a single note all night the way some people keep a single grief — not loudly, not for attention, just steadily, just because stopping would mean admitting it had ever held anything. I open it for the light. I close it for the dark. I have done this four times now. The milk has opinions about me and keeps them, gracefully, to itself. CLOCK The numbers change without my permission. That is the whole poem. That is the thing I cannot get over, standing in the kitchen, holding a mug like a hand. THE CHAIR BY THE WINDOW Nobody sits in it but the streetlight, which arrives every evening, orange and certain, and lays itself down across the cushion like a cat that does not need me, that has its own warmth, that will leave by morning without once looking back to see whether I minded. I mind a little. I have decided not to mention it to the streetlight, who has enough to carry, crossing all those rooms it was never invited into, doing its slow, indifferent, generous work.