-no school in '52-

awakened to the dead

of winter snowfall 

the side of the green

opaque shade's drawn,–– the space
heater's warmth drifts outward.

you can hear it
you can smell it

the heat of sheet metal pinging,— the scent

of sweet kerosine on fire.

it’s dark at winter's
early-morning hour

when school closings are reported
by the weatherman on television,

table-lamps are switched on

kitchen voices are muted

and the warmth of fuel folds
over itself in its slow approach

and you hear it pinging and know its scent,

when half-asleep is still asleep
and you lie there smiling

and you don’t have to do anything

or go anywhere.