The First Clang

The radiator clanged this morning,

metal violent, angry, loud,

and I felt the building's warning:

we'd all wake up from the shroud.

The paint is layered thick—

you can't see the original underneath,

how many seasons, how many picked

at the surface with their teeth.

The heat came on too fast,

too hot for early fall,

like it was making up for the past,

making up for the silent months of all.

Now I remember why I hate

the seasons turning, the year's harsh turn,

why I dread the coming date,

why I want the cold to return.

By January the sound will be me.

By February I won't hear it anymore.

By March I'll finally see

that I lived inside the roar.

But now, on the first morning,

I'm listening to metal wake,

I'm struck by the warning:

I'm barely going to break.