75 degrees

The numbers glowed, a stubborn red,

against the wall, a silent claim.

Seventy-five. I swore I'd said

sixty-eight, but it's always the same.

My finger hovered, then pressed down,

two clicks, to where it should have been.

This small, precise, domestic frown,

a battle waged, unseen.

Who changed it last? Who feels the cold

or heat more keenly, in their bone?

This argument, so worn and old,

leaves us both feeling quite alone.