At midnight, the microwave reads "00:01"
And the sound it emits displaces roaches in the cupboards.
The sound of a distant freeway, running with traffic,
Like the blood which flows through my veins, constant.

Neon lights buzz in the background,
And a moth floats, attracted to the light,
Which flutters until it dies, and its final resting place is the window sill,
Near a dying tomato plant whose soil is littered with ashes,
From late night smoking sessions as I stare at the street below.

Pedestrians are silhouettes stalking the streets at night.
And when they pass under a light, you're surprised to see:
The student, the migrant worker, and the mother of four,
disengaging from the hourly buses which run at this hour.  

The microwave reads "00:00," and its beep alerts of the meal,
Mostly frozen peas and potatoes, but the meat is warm,
And the plastic film poked with holes slowly fills the apartment,
With some sign of life and comfort.