John Tustin

It’s Too Cold

I wake up in the middle of the night because I have to piss
but the room, it’s too cold,
so I just lie here in the dark
and I think about it.

I really have to piss
but I’m stuck under the blankets,
my nose sticking out like a thermostat.
I should get up, just do it fast,
without thinking about it

and 
I should learn how to change a flat tire.
I should clean the house, fix the toilet
and apologize to people.
I should undo my ponytail and fuck something up.
I should break some windows,
scream bloody murder,
take a writing class,
compose cranky letters to editors
and learn how to play the guitar

but it’s too cold.

I think that to myself – 
It’s Too Cold.

It’s always too hot or too cold
or I’m too tired
and who am I kidding? –

I can’t even get up to piss without pondering it:
waffling, as dolorous as Hamlet,
still undecided after an eternity;
my hands two pretend cubes of ice,
the floor between the bed and the toilet a vast tundra,
cartoon wind blowing loud and frosty
from the open bathroom door
and into that dimly lit cavern between my ears.

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