The Freeze

I’m using a Visa to scrape at the glass

watching the ghost of the morning pass.

The marigolds gave up at three in the night,

now they’re just mush in the driveway light.

This is the time when the world goes thin,

when the radiator breathes its jagged grey tin

and the air in the house starts to taste like a cage.

I’m just another year into this age.

My knuckles are white and my blood is a stone.

Winter is coming for every damn bone,

starting with this, with the ice on the door

and the fear of the dark on the kitchen floor.