it is cold
the furnace went out
it is eighteen degrees outside in
the city
there are poor people sleeping in
tents
beneath
newspapers
the morning sun is pale in a
silver sky
my fingers are stiff…but not from
typing
the sound of the space-heater fills
the room
pushing cold air through hot coils
the smell of electricity touches
everything
the red kettle comes to boil
its sharp whistle pierces the
white blanket of noise that
clings to
me
promising something warm to hold
hot coffee from the French press
pushing through
the chilly gloom
