Sixty-Eight

The window seal is a mouth

that won't stay shut,

sucking the November damp

straight into the hallway.

I walk in and the air

is a thick, dry wool

pressing against my throat.

The furnace is screaming

at seventy-four.

There’s a yellow square of paper

taped over the digital display

in a handwriting I used to love.

It says Don’t touch,

like I’m a child

or a thief in my own house.