Bleached Mutiny

The first air out of the vent
rebelliously cold;
my goosebumps grow goosebumps.

The geese are smart
enough not to fly

And now I'm back
where the faux-wood stool
does not dare
be as unreceptive
as the unwarm tile floor.

At the age-old armchair by the window
my dreams sit,
their chins eating thoughtfully
from their palms.

The sky drops
white tessellations
frozen in complex rhyme
and reason.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think. Thanks.