Voices

It began as a small complaint—
nothing strident like the sudden shout
of thunder, or sirens in the night.

It was just a nuisance:
the tap that dripped in the next room,
insistent—not yet stealing my sleep.

The drawer that demanded an extra tug,
reluctant hinges on the heavy front door.
Their groans and whines were easy to forget,

store in the room called later
where they stacked up like minutes
into the shadowed years

until the drip became torture,
the drawer, a badge of neglect,
and when the door would no longer open,
I could not find the oil.