The Year of the Leak

The train is late again, and the rain

hits the tracks like a handful of grain.

I reach in my pocket for warmth and I find

the small brass nut I left behind.

I rubbed it all winter, I rubbed it all fall,

while the radiator hissed at the wall.

The threads are all smooth, a dull yellow glint,

like a small piece of light or a hard bit of lint.