Om Appliances

The refrigerator in my
cream colored kitchen
never stops humming;
always the slow and steady
thrumming,
a gentle reminder
of its constant conversion,
churning,
electric current coursing.

Sometimes the thrumming
becomes a gurgle,
                           drip
and I imagine my fridge
with a cheek full of mouthwash,
spitting sour milk
into the sink.
Then it clicks
and quiets--though never
to silence--

And the HVAC,
sensing an open space
to fill,
makes the whole apartment
vibrate
and the walls exhale
a dry heat
that sucks the saline
from my knuckles,
from my pores.

So I turn to my nurturing
moisture machine,
and its gentle whir
joins in the chorus
that builds to crescendo
in my seven hundred and
fourteen square feet,
and the ring of their singing
drowns out the TV.

My neighbors' laughter
fades into the mix,
and some days I feel
like a leaf, discolored
and crinkled, afloat,
whipping about
in the gusts of noise.

But some days,
like today,
I feel more like a sail,
the energy around me
a favorable wind.

And I feel myself
begin to
huuuuummmmmmmmm.