For a few days there, in each middle
of night, I had to light the pilot
if we were to warm shower, this developed world
an insulated silo in a garage corner
a slim whispering line, fixed at the center,
a prisoner put to work, wheezing alone.
In thirty years, my father says, his flame
has never gone out. I have unusual
problems: no fire in the little window,
a small trigger clicking to make spark.
This design keeps me up all night,
a delicate regulation of water and ignition
and over the life of heat, we follow drafts
looking for foreign puddles. We extinguish
what we don’t believe in, escape
down galvanized pipe through slab,
earth’s body in a given state, that might rise
up chimney in cloud to a sea of brick.
A suspect waits to be a part of this storm.
A tank fills, empties, fills, piped, vents, is
plumbed, taking boil and steam of each small day.