it’s 3°f outside.
the house seems
to be moaning;
it’s releasing these
sounds i have never heard.
“i understand,”
i say aloud,
consoling the empty space.
it’s brutally cold outside.
i was thinking
that maybe
i should build a fire.
i should do
a lot of things –
a lot of things.
but instead
i just sit and drink coffee.
it is tepid;
black,
and strong.
from the couch,
under my blanket,
sipping coffee so strong
it could strip paint,
i look at the fireplace
and think about the things
i should do.
but doing
often takes saying
and i hate my words.
too many thoughts,
too many feelings,
and a distrust
of my mouth and
that which will fall
from it.
so i sit and
i sip my coffee.
and listen to the house,
as the frigid day
takes its toll on her.