The Cold War in the Hallway

I can see my breath when I talk to the sink.

The kitchen is a meat locker, and I think

you’re the one who crept out in the middle of the night

to win the old argument without a fight.

Sixty-two degrees on the digital face.

I find your wool sweater taking up space

on the radiator ribs, catching the heat.

I hear the plastic snap as I turn the dial, a small defeat.