Steam

The landlord flipped the switch in the dark.

Now the pipes are trying to breathe,

shuddering like a car that won’t start,

making a sound like a wet dog might leave.

At three in the morning, the scream began.

A high, thin whistle that cut through the sheet,

the desperate heat of a dying man.

Below the valve, on a piece of wet board,

a puddle of rust-colored water starts to shake.

It’s a rhythmic, metallic sort of discord

that keeps the whole building awake.