The coldest cold

Many apparitions of cold don’t bother me:
I don’t care for the cool of the glass
against my feverish head,
nor the breeze in Summer
that makes the night bearable
but the windows clap,

nor the frost in your eyes
that don’t look me in the face
as I ignore the icicles from your breath
when you feel the need to speak at last;
I have learned to dress warm.

Never though I get used
to the dog’s indifference
now you are his boss
and I a pedestrian walking by.

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