Orchestra at 2 a.m.

The refrigerator hums in E minor,
too loud,
too alive.

The AC stutters- G, G, G,
then silence,
then a sudden exhale like a tired god.

A pipe coughs.
A dog answers.
Both off-beat.

Someone’s door groans open three streets away,
a low F,
rusted.

A car alarm hiccups, forgets why it began,
and falls quiet again.

Phones light up with no message.
The fan clicks like a metronome
with performance anxiety.

The clock ticks,
but not evenly.
Seconds limp.

In the hallway,
a voice?
Or maybe the building dreaming.

Every sound tripping over the next,
every silence unfinished.

At 2:30 a.m,
nothing plays in key.
The world’s score corrupted,
still
somehow
making
music.