the poems of winter shine through the glass
The old poet with his heart of ice
has tricked us into being here
reading them while we see our breath
floating like a crystal fog before us
instead of drinking something on a sunny beach,
something with rum in it.

The poems of winter rhyming snow with go,
are always the same, always dreadful
and yet we stay here, politely listening
freezing, tinkering with the thermostat
putting another blanket on the bed
because he's reading again tonight.