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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
