The Stripped Valve

The plastic knob went crunch

and now the floor is littered

with white flakes like dead skin.

I’m down on my knees in the dust

with a pair of rusted pliers,

trying to bite onto the silver nub

that’s left behind.

There’s no arrow. No low or high.

The metal is smooth as a river stone.

I turn it left until the pipes scream,

then right until the room goes still.

I’m guessing at the heat

until my fingernails turn blue.