Sixty-Two

I heard the Honeywell click shut

against the hallway wall.

I’m shivering, but you have cut

the furnace for us all—

or maybe the house just gave up.

Your thumbprint’s on the plastic face,

a ghost of where you stood.

A draft is crawling through the place

and the window frame is leaking wood

dust and November air. I’m huddled

in a sweatshirt that smells like the bin.

You want the pipes to be muddled

and cold, and I want to give in.