Clanking

It’s 4:00 AM and the pipes are screaming.

A rhythmic, violent iron-on-iron thud

that sounds like a fist inside the wall,

demanding a debt I haven't paid yet.

The silver paint is a landscape of blisters,

bubbling and peeling back like a bad burn.

I touch the valve and the heat is a threat,

a dry, metallic fever that smells of dust.

The knocking slows, then gathers its breath

for one last strike against the floorboards.

It's winter coming, uninvited and loud,

shaking the room until the glass begins to rattle.