December, Dawn

The old golden radiator sputters,
seethes and pops. It whinnies
like the engine of dad’s old Mustang
heating up during the deep freeze.
The furnace groans onward.
I sprawl naked against
the cold stillness atop
the disheveled bed
in the tick-tock silence
of deep December.
A rising, whistling scream
wails from downstairs.
I reach for the warmth of wool.
It’s the time to make coffee or tea,
I must have left the stove on.
I’m not going to turn it off.
Not yet.

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