Nobody Told the Heat

The first one hit around two.

I'd slept maybe an hour.

Then silence long enough to think

I'd dreamed it—then the power

of the pipes came back, and twice,

and then a third that had me sitting up.

Bubbled paint. Yellowed enamel.

Rust at the valve. I put

nothing down because I had nothing.

Just lay there and looked.

The ceiling had a water stain.

Twenty minutes. Then it knocked

again. Same pipe. Same tone.

I'm in someone else's space—

their sheets, their walls, their window

looking out on someone else's place.

At six the heat came on and held.

I got up. Made the coffee wrong—

wrong amount, wrong cup.

The pipes had been at it all along.