Markless

The air in the corner is biting and thin,

so I reach for the heat where the pipes begin.

The plastic is smooth and the metal is old,

but the surface is slick and remarkably cold.

The numbers are gone, scrubbed away by the years,

by the sweat of the palms and the grease and the gears.

The dial just spins in a circle of gray,

and I can't even tell if the cold's gonna stay.

I turn it to left and I turn it to right,

while the room stays as dark as the middle of night.