Insulation

The floor lamp was thirty dollars at the store,

now the white snow is all over the floor.

I’m shoving the blocks in the bin by the door,

while the plastic starts a high-pitched war.

It squeaks like a tooth on a rusted nail,

a sound that makes the nerves turn pale.

I’ve got static beads on my heavy black sock,

clinging to the cotton like a tiny flock.

They don’t break down and they don’t let go,

this cheap kind of winter, this fake kind of snow.