Degrees of Separation

The floorboards moan under the weight

of wool socks and a quiet, practiced theft.

I hear the click in the hall, the gate

where the last of the warmth has left.

Sixty-four is a number for the dead,

for keeping the milk from turning sour.

I pull the quilt up over my head

and count the minutes of the hour.

In the dark, the digital red glow

burns like a small, angry eye.

You want the air to be thin and low.

I want to live before I die.