House Warming

A poem by Joesph Green

Posted here with his permission

Living alone he finds his own company

thin, so he considers getting a dog.

Then he thinks about taking care of the dog,

feeding it, cleaning up after it. Perhaps even

losing it. Instead he feeds the stove

crumpled paper, split kindling, dry wood.

Good stove, he says. Good stove.

It matches his own attitude, this stove,

the way it roars a little before it settles down

to hold forth more quietly.

To give its steady, measured response.

To fill his empty rooms with it.