The knocking at the floorboards

The window pane is silvered with the frost.

I count the hours and the sleep I’ve lost.

Below the floor, the iron starts to groan,

a hammer striking deep against a bone.

It sounds like someone with a heavy wrench,

waking me up on this narrow bench

of a mattress. The smell of dust begins to rise,

stinging the dry corners of my eyes.

My single sock is stiffening on the grate,

hardened by a heat that comes too late.