The Iron Heartbeat

The landlord turned the valve and woke the ghost.

Three AM is a series of iron knuckles

striking the pipes from the basement up.

It’s a rhythmic, frantic knocking,

like someone trying to remember their name.

The valve on the end spits a localized fog,

hissing at the floorboards, making the air

taste like a wet penny.

The lead paint on the wall is tired of holding on,

curling into dry, white ribbons

under the weight of the heat and the noise.