Bleeding the Valves

The silver paint is flaking off in scales

like the skin of a fish that died in the heat.

I draped my wet socks over the iron rails

and waited for the metal to start its beat.

It clanks and shudders, a trapped, angry ghost

knocking against the floorboards and the dust.

It gives off a smell like burnt wool and toast

mixed with the damp, orange scent of the rust.

I turn the key and the trapped air hisses,

a thin, boiling scream that lasts for a minute.

It’s the only warmth in the house that misses

having a real, living body inside it.