R-Value

The landlord’s heart is a vacant lot,

and the radiator’s cold as a funeral plot.

The plastic film on the window frame

sags like a belly, playing a game

with the damp air turning to heavy slush.

I’m scraping the glass in the morning hush

with an expired card from the library branch,

watching the frost start an avalanche.

The light at seven is a sheet of lead,

gray as the thoughts inside my head.

I’m shivering under a polyester pile,

waiting for the sun to stay for a while.