Sarah D. Silvey

 

An icy little wind devil

kicks up the air in my cube

leans against my left shoulder to read what I write

blows on my soup

peeks under my blanket

keeps making grabs for my toes.

The office AC has summoned him.

Only he who has been granted

the power of the thermostat

can send him back to the ninth circle

from whence he came.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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