The wind cuts through this jacket's cheap nylon

The wind cuts through this jacket's cheap nylon,

and the streetlights have a sickly, yellow sheen.

My shins are numb, my breath is coming on

in little clouds that vanish, barely seen.

Then a hot, heavy wave hits my knees,

smelling of fake lavender and scorched tin.

The basement vent is gasping through the freeze,

flapping its plastic slats like a dying fin.

I stand in the cloud of someone else's heat,

the chemical steam clinging to my jeans.

It's the only warm thing on this empty street,

this laundry ghost from a house of quiet scenes.