Cold Damn House

The electric box of inefficient warm is set high,
but the fan pushing the orange hot cools it on impact.
You’d think the oil heater on the other side
would play its part, spew some warm.
Instead it pretends all is well.
The glass patio door makes sure of that.
Heat rises, so the ice air bites at my ankles.
I can’t feel my feet.
I think of the hot summers from years long gone –
the hot pavement shimmering in the radiant day,
but the tile floor and the glass door are still.
Tonight they stare, catatonic, heartless –
relentless refrigerators of my nibbled spirit.
So I put on a housecoat over my jeans and layers,
a tortoise shell against the frigid room,
drink my tea, dance my blood, and wait
for summer or pneumonia
whichever comes first.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Cold Damn House

Speak!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s