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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 6

The Furnace

Predictably, it goes out
this night of a freak May blizzard.
I’d normally be outside
watching a last gift of winter:
air cold as a sterile operating room
pumped through the house,
while outside snow falls
in flakes white as moths.

Not a technician’s available
until morning, just reassurances
the house won’t burn down
or gas spread, more dangerous
than an invisible oil slick.

So Beth and I pile on layers,
as if preparing for a trek
through Arctic darkness,
then toss a second
and third comforter
onto our bed,
and spoon into each other.

I bedtime-story Beth to sleep
with reminiscences
of basking in Florida sun,
warmth spreading back
and forth between us,

while outside, we almost
don’t notice the snow falling,
and inside: the temperature dropping.

  Robert Cooperman