Everything shut down and dead
for the day; even my own
cosy abandonment is worried
it will catch a fever,
break out into a delirious sweat
and burn the house to meltwater.
Nothing but the nothing of white
outside; I watch the news
expecting yet more stark death,
knowing only the warm ones will go,
unable to cope with the chill
this sodden existence has succumbed to.
I blanch in my pyjamas, yet again,
like wrinkling leftovers; somewhere
outside, the temperature is changing,
and who can tell if it’s for the better?