The Faded Face

The boiler hums, a low, consistent drone,

but the heat is weak, a grudging sort of grace.

I tried to check the pressure, left alone

with that small dial, its once clear, numbered face.

The glass is scratched, the markings worn away,

a faint gray ghost where black once sharply showed.

The needle trembles, having lost its way,

between two blurs, a burden it bestowed.

On me, this task, this guessing in the dark.

No proper reading, just a vague, slow drift.

It spins in place, leaving no real mark,

just endless worry, an unhelpful gift.