I didn’t notice the fridge
until the power went out.
And then I missed its steady faith—
a presence that said: still here.
The air conditioner’s wheeze,
the neighbor’s dog at 3 a.m.,
traffic bleeding through windows,
a distant ocean—
all of it,
the unnoticed orchestra
that scores our sleep.
We call it noise.
It’s prayer.
The drone of machines
that keep us alive,
the rustle of leaves,
footsteps upstairs—
enough to keep us
from drifting too far.
When the city sleeps
and the noise thins
to your breathing,
the heartbeat
against the pillow—
The silence isn’t peaceful.
It’s waiting.
It’s the space
between what was
and what’s coming—
and you find yourself listening
for the fridge to kick back in,
for the familiar hymn
of things that work,
things that stay.

Michael Boss is a Michigan-based writer from Monroe. His work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Inkwell, and Cathexis Northwest. He spent the past 25 years as a special education teacher at a local high school, where language, communication, and rhythm continue to shape his work.