Ghost Numbers

The thermostat dial is smooth as river stone,

the numbers worn away so long I've turned it blind.

For three months I've been operating on a guess alone,

turning by feel, by memory, by whatever sign

my fingers could find in the plastic grooves.

Today it's freezing. I spin it wild.

The heating bill spikes. The landlord moves—

I panic. I lie. I say the dial is broken, not mild

incompetence masquerading as a working tenant.

The ghost-marks show where numbers used to be,

faint impressions, like evidence of what was meant

to guide me. Instead I've been flying free

in the dark, adjusting by touch, by guess,

and now the bill's a problem, and I've confessed

to mechanical failure instead of admitting I'm a mess

who doesn't know how to read what's been pressed

into his own apartment's basic tools.

The landlord will send someone. They'll see

I'm the kind of person who breaks all the rules

by not understanding them, by letting

the dial go smooth under my hand.