Some nights after I wake,
because I think it's time to head out to work,
I get scared while palming water on my face.
Alone in the dark.
Careful not to wake Helen.
Because every so often,
the pipes make this sound
like a machine, riling itself up.
Thick sputter, then a hollow thwack
like a man is hitting our pipes with his wrench.
I go to work.
And all day that sound's jammed there.
All day like my mind is some conveyor belt
with a bone lodged between the gears.
This weekend, when Helen's gone,
I will just once try my truest hand
as that man that in the quiet I've always feared.
I will strike our pipes with my wrench.