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Steam Radiator
The radiator whispered like breath
beneath the old window
(half opened for mercy)
where cold fingers of air
braided themselves with steam
and the snow stayed only for seconds
dancing above the sill
in the breeze.
The sofa, burgundy and bruised,
sagged like an old confession.
I curled into its velvet hush
and watched the cupola burn gold
(above the parking lot at dusk)
through the veil of falling snow.
This was my aerie,
thin-walled and tranquil,
where I painted, and read,
and wrote my way
into becoming.
Below, the café breathed
lentils and clove,
hippies hunched
at secondhand tables,
hands wrapped around chipped mugs
(arguing softly about Hesse)
as incense tangled with the steam.
I read Siddhartha in the original,
while Han Fook waited in the margins,
quiet as smoke,
his silence teaching me
to listen without answers.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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