Iron Awake

Three AM, and the house clears its throat.

That clanging starts, a loud, rhythmic knock,

like something stuck, caught in its coat,

trying to escape from the very clock.

Steam rises, barely there, from the old iron grille,

smelling faintly of dust and metal, hot and used.

It groans and ticks, it won't be still,

like an old beast, perpetually confused.

I pull the covers tighter, press my head down low,

but the pipes insist, a conversation with the dark.

They’re talking about time, I think, and how slow

it can be, leaving its own terrible mark.

It’s just the heat, I know. But it feels like a warning.