The furnace grinds Six am

The furnace grinds. Six a.m.

I'm listening in the kitchen, cold already,

watching frost form on the inside

of the window like a question.

The thermostat dial hasn't moved

in months. Sixty-eight degrees.

A number I didn't set,

a temperature I've learned to accept.

Winter is coming. Three months

of depending on this machine

to keep doing what it's supposed to do,

to not fail, to keep grinding.

If it stops, I'll call.

I'll wait. I'll pay.

I'll be grateful. I'll be angry.

I'll be back where I started.

But for now, standing in the cold kitchen,

I'm aware that everything holding me

through the next season is

a machine I've never serviced.

I reach toward the dial.

My hand stops.

What good would adjusting it do?

The frost is already forming anyway.