A Cold House Poem by Gary Whitehead

I wake now to a house as cold
as your side of our double bed.

Across the threshold, in the dark
hall, the thermostat sparks

a blue star, and downstairs
the boiler thumps like a heart

revived. Hot water shrieks
through pipes till registers tick

like clocks toward a time bearable
and close. I dress in wool

and fleece, keep hands in pockets.
On the couch, our dog looks out

the bay window, his breath
on the glass making a bouquet,

gray flowers which bloom and fade.