The Knocking

The silver paint is bubbling into scales

near the valve that never quite shuts.

At 3:00 AM, the pipes start their labor,

a rhythmic thumping deep in the guts

of a building that’s older than my father.

It sounds like a frantic, iron hand

trying to signal through the steam

from a dark and distant land.

I put my palm against the heat,

feeling the rust shudder and groan.

It’s a loud, burning kind of company

for a person who is mostly alone.