The Drain Room

Lyrics

Down. Past the heat.
Past the noise. Down.
To the slow beat of the house's iron heart.

I don't use the main stairs. Not for this.
Down the back way, hand on the cold rail.
Past the hiss and steam of the Laundry door, left ajar.
Past the hum of the Furnace Corridor, a dry fire breath.
It's always cooler down here. Further down.
To the last door at the end of the slope.
No lock. Never a lock on this one.

Here at the throat. Here at the floor's mouth.
Where everything finds its way out.
Thump. And pull. The promise of the drain.
Thump. And pull. Again and again.
Clear the way for what wants to be gone.
From the dark, until the dawn.

The concrete slants to the center square.
The iron grate, a black spiderweb there.
A single brass button from a uniform, 1928 maybe,
caught in the crossbars, a dull gold gleam.
Someone else's work, a hundred years deep.
His echo is the ache in my back, the promise I keep.
I set the bucket down, its clang the only other sound.
For now.

Here at the throat. Here at the floor's mouth.
Where everything finds its way south.
Thump. And pull. The promise of the drain.
Thump. And pull. Again and again.
Clear the way for what wants to be gone.
From the dark, until the dawn.

There's a drip from a pipe overhead.
Each drop lands with the weight of a stone.
Not a sound, but a pressure felt in the bone.
The clog isn't just hair, or rust, or a lost child's ring.
It's a memory the house is trying to sing.
And my job is to push it through. To make it forget.

A sudden give. A gurgle, a rush.
A clean, dark quiet. A final hush.
The water is running. The work is done.
Thump. Pull. Gone.