[Roger Slater]

My House Is an Orchestra

My house is my orchestra late in the night
when everyone else is asleep.
The fridge in the kitchen will start with a hum,
a murmur that’s low, slow, and deep.
And then, if you listen, the clock near the stairs
will decide that it’s time to begin.
And ticking and tocking, the pendulum-swinging of
click-clocking comes joining in.

The drip in the sink does the plinking, I think.
The wind makes the windows all creak.
And sometimes the rain will come whispering, too,
like voices all trying to speak.
The moan of the furnace, the squeak of the bed
as I burrow in, bundled up tight—
the tuning is over; we’re ready to start now
the music of houses at night.

So lock-it-a, sock-it-a, pock-it-a tock,
each moment a droop and a drop.
And hem-had-a, ham-had-a, him-had-a hum,
the night makes a shoop and a shop.
The speckles and spackles and spookles and spunkles—
the streep and the breep and the sweep.
My house is an orchestra deep in the night,
with a peek, pock, peep.

My house is an orchestra deep in the night,
and I just can’t sleep.