Scattered Warmth

It’s warm. The pot on the stove. Steaming a little bit. Not burning hot like underneath the bed where the monster lives. Just a little warmer and warmer. Like a winter hat. It’s warm. A ghost lives in the pantry. I think my house is 71 degrees right now. Outside is spring and flowers. Dying off someday. We all could. Spring grows everyday. Warm in the rain. I carry an umbrella. And forget it’s in my hand. It’s warm. Somehow. Like a photo with me having warm eyes. Gradually, I have become like an unused bike in the garage. Wheels that are rusty and haven't spun in a while. Rust everywhere. I repaired the bike chain. Then the wheel fell off. It’s warm. Like the opposite of a vampire. It’s warm. Like my fingers inside gloves. It’s warm. 72 degrees outside. So I went outside. I wore a winter hat. That is warm. Sometimes I don’t notice. It’s 73 degrees. It’s warm.