On Chill

I would trade you a spoon for a rusty egg beater
And a gallon of paint for a thread
If this wretched excuse for a coal-fired heater
Warmed it more than the flesh of the dead

I would ransom a mirror for one honest flame,
And a clock for the twitch of its hand,
For time here lies still, and the minutes are lame,
And the hours refuse my command.

The grate only grins with a merciless gape,
All iron and promise betrayed,
As though heat itself were a vulgar escape
From the contract with night we have made.

I heap it with coal like a mourner with flowers,
Each lump a small hope laid to rest,
Yet the chill keeps its court, and with bureaucrat powers
Signs frost into bone, rib, and chest.

One cannot feel cheated when death sets the terms—
He is nothing if not very fair—
But to freeze before him, while living, confirms
There are fates even he would not dare.