The bill is sitting on the mat

The bill is sitting on the mat,

a number I can’t quite believe.

I’ve worn two sweaters where I sat,

and tucked my hands inside a sleeve.

The window frame is old and loose,

it lets the February in.

It offers up a poor excuse

for how the walls are getting thin.

A wasp fell from the painted sill,

its yellow stripes have turned to rust.

The air is moving, sharp and chill,

and kicks its legs up in the dust.