Boiler Room

Jan 12 2015

The boiler is heavy and squat

as a bank vault,
thick steel walls
sealing in
precious heat.

It sits in a small dark room
that bears its name,
on a cold concrete foundation
bare bulb on-a-chain.
Pipes radiate out

every which way
like some madcap invention,
a basement lab, chockablock
with valves, and gauges, and pumps.

In this ungodly cold
it feels like home
when the boiler fires-up.
With a reassuring rumble
it comes to life,
pipes clicking, gurgles rushing
chimney exhaling exhaust.
The warm heart of the house
its comforting gut.

Except one day, it will be taken by rust,
the house fall silent
windows glaze with ice.
Or oil run out, ignition fail.
The life and death of winter.
The thin thread
on which we depend.

It seems I can't write a poem that isn't utterly pessimistic and depressing! I've said before that if I didn't discipline myself, every poem would be about death. I sure didn't think this one was heading that way; but there it is, slipping in to the 3rd last line. (Although if I really wanted to only write affirmation and cheery doggerel and sweet nothings, why bother? I might just as well sign on at Hallmark!)

I've written on this theme before: the thin thread of dependency in a civilization such as ours. Because like any system, the more complex, specialized, and just-in-time it gets, the less resilient it becomes. So we depend on long inter-connected chains of production and supply for everything in our lives: the food and fuel and shelter that serve our most basic needs. Without fossil fuel, our gorgeous high-tech cars are reduced to massive obstacles of rusting steel; without heating oil or that thin umbilicus of natural gas, our warm hospitable homes are reduced to empty shells of 2 x 4s and sheetrock, wind whistling through abandoned rooms; and without convoys of tractor-trailers crossing the continent from California day and night, we'd soon starve. Without each other, we are helpless. (Except, that is, for that tiny minority of paranoid survivalists; and the even smaller minority of off-the-grid and self-sufficient counter-culturists.) And we seem intent on making ourselves even more helpless all the time: as if we really need self-parking cars, thermostats set by our smart phones, and fridges that tell us when we're out of milk.

But despite all that, I had no theme in mind, setting out. It's just that lately, there have been some issues with my oil tanks and deliveries; so I've been watching a little nervously as my fuel gauge slips lower, listening a little more carefully for the reassuring rumble of the boiler starting up. Looking for something to write, why not about my small but powerful boiler in its cozy little boiler room?