Cold

Sitting at my desk, I realize I'm cold.

I'm cold.
I sit at my desk and think I'm cold.
Do I get a sweater?
No.
I'd hate to rearrange and lose my place on the page.
Do I turn up the heat?
No.
(I can't, the new kitchen has no baseboard heaters.)
Do I leave my desk and move to a warmer spot?
No. Heavens, no.
Can't write there.
The rain beats against the window air conditioner with pattering droplets.
It's been languishing there all winter.
It's early spring, now.
I sigh.
The night-cold air comes through and makes me shiver.
Do I care?
No.
But I'm still cold.