Dormitory Radiator

I just heard him pull into the driveway,
so please acknowledge him, the pink-shirted
custodian, and do hold back the shoving crowd,
oh let the radiator man through to make repairs
on this century-old iron accordion lookalike. Now
in my own infirmity, I like to think of bareback girls
sitting astride its once-new coils, as first-light entered
and petunias fondled it within their window-boxes;
I like to think of a delicate snowfall, too,
whereby giant wet flakes beyond the window
stampeded off in their entirety before the ground
could hold ’em fast. And you can bet there’s been
private aroma aplenty a-heating within this room:
O if he misses that—bright, bright fuchsia fella—
he’ll miss the best life ever brought in here,
though again, I insist the whole shebang now hinges
on letting this uniformed man bull in
and effect (exactly like each new day)
one banging and clanging revival.



William C. Blome lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has appeared in Poetry London, PRISM International, In Between Hangovers, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review and The California Quarterly.




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