A Young Man Typing a Poem

Isn’t it ironic that I stay away from cold places?
I do not know them, though that ignorance
will soon change. And perhaps things will be 
different, a little warmer in mood between us.
The weather and I. The pungent snow will keep me
inside and I will say hello to my notebook more often.

Now and then, a comet burns outside my window
on its way back from cold place. One can only imagine
going back where the sun feels lost, where darkness loses
its inherent value. Black matte spoiling just as
light succumbs to cancer while the stars fall like ailing tacks
into dashing young nebulas.

He is there. Of course he is. Watching from the unseen shade,
the struggle of prayer to be warm. Trudging past indifferent
houses with the same stucco on the way to get milk. The feet
ask when I think they’ll be redeemed from hypothermia. A
pharaoh and some men yell at me for having one god. I am
a socialist before I find my doorstep again.

I reckon there will a curse of love soon, just before
the moon dies in its sleep, though not for me
but for others who linger in things like that.
I’m not bothered, I’m only pointing out facts
that I observe. Maybe one day they’ll be replaced by
something warm or something cold that people
will walk by ironically.