Low-Fire

The radiator gave up its ghost at dawn,

a final gurgle of rusty, lukewarm spit.

The apartment is settling into a quiet chill

that the windows are happy to share.

The fern on the shelf has turned to tinder.

When I try to lift the terra cotta pot,

the particle board underneath gives way,

tired of holding onto something so heavy and wet.

The clay is caked in a white, salty crust,

the mineral sweat of a dozen failed waterings.

It sits in a ring of stagnant, brown sludge,

porous and cold as a brick in the rain.

I leave the mess where it fell on the floor.

Some things aren't worth the effort of sweeping.