Standard Operating Temperature

The radiator is banging out a rhythm

like a pipe wrench hitting a hollow tooth.

I’m sitting on the bathroom floor at 3:00 AM,

biting the hard, clear plastic

until my jaw starts to ache.

The little window is losing its mind.

The liquid crystal flickers and drags,

turning a nine into a three,

the battery dying right when I need

to know if I’m actually burning.

There is no one here to put a hand

against my forehead and tell me I’m fine.

Just me and this six-dollar stick

that can't decide how much heat

a person is allowed to carry alone.