The Boiler

The comfort of cold air.
Small drops of nothingness.
Collecting coal from outside,
in a scuttle made
of zinc and tin.
The end is bent
from numerous pressings-
A black ragged mouth,
that gently spews.
Over old newspapers and wood.
Creating a halo of black.
Shut the door,
and let the furnace grow.
Heat blessed heat.
Roaring inside a metal tomb.
No on or off, no thermostat.
Just uncontrollable flame.
Converting cold air into warm.


One response to “The Boiler

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: