Why do we read? / Poem: 71 degrees

I am unflatteringly known as The Woman Who Buys Couches. See the yellow Sold sign? I bought it. Here's the reason why...

The cushions are always falling off plus there are wine stains at the bottom.

In my continuing crusade to eat healthy, I bot some lo-fat cheese instead of my usual delicious caraway Havarti or full-fat creamy mind-mannered Muenster. Glad you remembered the "u" in Muenster, Ruthie. Remember, folks, she used to the spelling champ at Mercer Elementary School in Shaker.

Hey, wouldn't it be fun to have a spelling Bee with senior citizens?

When I woke up this morning I spent 40 blissful minutes reading in bed. To do so, I must give myself orders: You will NOT read the new Newsweek. Instead, you'll read Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, which Ron gave me.

I'm a third done, but when you read five other books at the same time, you've gotta remember to go back before you lose the thread.

I did remember the two main characters - Patty and Walter - but couldn't remember who Richard was. 'It'll come to you,' I said. 'Keep reading."

And it came. Along with an idea for a poem. Here's my first draft and maybe the last.

I've never looked at my thermostat as an art object until now.

71 DEGREES

unknown sounds at dawn
quilt up to my chin,
i swivel my ears
what's that sound?

rumbles from underground
like rivers fill my walls
my bed will soon be
swept away in waters
and I shall drown

a shower
of warmth descends
from slats in the ceiling

i stretch my toes
throw off the covers
and feel the
kindness
of warmth
spreading through
my organs,
licking my
cold face

stealing upstairs
the thermostat has
clicked on:
71 degrees.

Who knew that
heat in the chill of
autumn was
as a fine glass of
wine
taken
in the woods.