Walked in The air a thick still blanket

Walked in. The air, a thick, still blanket.

Eighty. Red numbers, glowing, on the wall.

A tiny, digital sneer.

I’d left it at seventy-two. A reasonable call.

But no. The little arrow, nudged again.

Up, up, up. To some infernal high.

What is it with this heat, this stubborn need?

To melt me into puddle, watch me fry?

It’s not the cost, or not just that.

It’s the silent argument, the power play.

This little plastic box, it holds the peace.

Or melts it, slowly, day by day.

I lower it. I know it won't stay.