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.
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