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

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