74 Degrees

The door clicked shut, the furnace roared.

A blast of dry, hot air hit my face.

My skin felt suddenly gored

by this heat, out of place.

It was set, again.

Seventy-four. The numbers glowed,

a red, defiant light.

I walked right over, slowed,

and tapped it, with all my might,

back to sixty-eight, then.

The fan whirred down, a sigh,

the sound of something lost.

This small, unending why,

a silent, constant cost.

We'll do this, every day.

Tomorrow, I'll walk in,

and the red digits will be bright.

And this quiet, petty sin

will greet me, burning light,

and there's nothing I can say.