The Iron Lung

The pipes start to knock like a guest at the door

who doesn't quite know if they’re welcome inside.

A clank and a hiss from beneath the floor,

where the heat and the iron have finally allied.

I lie in the dark with the blanket pulled tight,

listening to the metal expand in the wall.

It’s the stuttering heartbeat of a Tuesday night,

a series of hammers that rise and then fall.

There’s silver paint peeling in thin, brittle flakes

off the fins where the steam begins to arrive.

It’s a lonely, industrial noise that it makes,

just to prove that the house is still slightly alive.