Static and Wool

The furnace died at two in the morning.

I am shaking under the weight

of things I thought I’d thrown away.

I pulled the wool from the cedar chest,

heavy and tasting of a house

that belongs to a stranger now.

The moth-holes are tiny windows

letting the freeze through.

There is a tag, yellowed and stiff,

hanging by a single translucent thread:

Dry Clean Only.

As if I have the money for that,

or the time to be that careful with a ghost.