The Knocking in the Pipes

The cold front hit like a heavy door

settling against the frame of the night.

I woke to a hammer against the floor,

a rhythmic panic in the absence of light.

It’s the silver bleeder valve, rusted thin,

letting go of a single, tepid bead.

It sounds like someone trying to get in,

or a ghost with a very specific need.

I lay there listening to the iron groan

while the house expands in a jagged sigh.

It’s a hollow, metallic, repetitive tone

asking for something I can't supply.