Two A.M. Returns

It started at 2 AM,

the metallic banging in the pipes,

the radiator waking up

like something that had been sleeping

all summer, all fall, waiting

for cold to give it purpose.

The clanking is the sound

of water moving through iron,

of heat I didn't ask for

pushing through the walls,

rattling the air.

It smells like dust burning off,

like the radiator remembers

everything from last winter—

the dry air, the hum,

the way I never learned

to control it, to make it

give me less, to make it

give me something warm

but not too warm, something

I could live inside of

without sweating through

my clothes at 3 AM.

I could put something on the radiator

to muffle the sound.

I could learn to live with it.

I could move.

Instead I lie in bed

and listen to it work,

this thing that returns

every year without fail,

this thing I can't turn off,

this thing that has me trapped

in a room that gets too hot

while the rest of the city

is still getting cold.