The furnace is ancient but still sound,
As mysterious and inefficient as my heart
Beating just enough to elude instability
And overcome my house’s separation
From the foundation that might threaten
My warm-blooded life
And delay the fear of fears
I might not be brave for
Or hide from my children;
The furnace is theirs,
But they needn’t think about it,
Or replace it with self-sufficiency,
Or solitude; not yet.