1:50, tuesday a.m.
the persistent drawl of pitter patter and humdrum
hissing like a broken radiator,
the pit of my stomach askew
with the ache of chronic distaste.
dimples cemented to my face, heels entrenched,
plowing resistance into the crusty earth,
things got awfully quiet, and awfully loud,
and the static hiss burrowed behind my ears,
hobbling me, like a bit in a mouth,
pervasive as winter's ectopic fog,
I forgot what it was, not to be numb,
for a moment there, burrowed deep
into my mattress, beneath the sheets,
wary and welcoming the entrancing distraction
of a glaring screen or bodega-bought whiskey,

I think the hissing has stopped,

the numbing cold nearly lifted,

but my radiator still sits quietly
in the corner of my darkened room,

the tracings of a whisper circling patiently
overhead.