reaching over to the cold space

in the middle 

of the night i'm

shivering.

my teeth chatter.

i may be dying of frostbite.

i can't feel

my feet.

i reach over for the dog

to warm me,

or for one of

three wives,

or Betty,

but it's an empty cold

space.

i think about the comforter

in the closet,

down the hall.

the big white cloud

of goose feathers.

the choices are to continue

shivering,

or to get up and go get it.

if only i had a coin

to flip to help me decide.