Secondhand Heat

The plastic bag is cutting into my fingers,

the frozen burritos hard and square against my thigh.

I’m walking home past the basement windows

when the vent opens its mouth and exhales.

It’s a cloud of lilac and scorched cotton,

a warm, chemical breath from a life

that involves matching towels and folded sheets.

I stop for a second, letting the steam

hit my face like a sudden, soft hand.

The metal teeth of the vent are choked.

A clump of gray lint is caught there,

shivering in the artificial wind,

a small, soft heart of dust

that doesn't have anywhere else to go.