What the Pipe Does

Three knocks. A pause. Then two.

I'd been awake already, going back

through something I'd said at work—

the tone, the thing I didn't track

until the drive home.

I got up. Put my hand

against the radiator casing.

It was warm. The knock, unplanned,

came through my palm again.

3:11 on the clock.

The orange street light at the shade.

I held onto the knock

a moment in my wrist.

I thought: it's always done this.

I've just been asleep for it—

all winter. Both things. The hiss

of the pipe. The dark.

The room at 3 AM.

I went back to bed.

The work thing came again.