Iron Heat

The building groaned, a distant grind,

then here, a sudden clank behind

the cold air that had filled the room.

A hiss. The slow, metallic boom

of water pushing, making way.

The heat was coming, come what may.

The windowpane, it rattled soft,

as if a ghost had just been scoffed.

I touched the iron, still just cool,

then felt the slow rise, breaking rule

of winter's chill. Chipped paint, off-white,

a dusty fin, catching the light.

It would be loud soon, steaming hot,

a kind of comfort, hitting the spot.

But now, this quiet, warming strain,

before the thumping starts again.