by: Billy Collins
A little heat in the iron radiator,
the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,
and the windows shut tight,
encrusted with hexagons of frost.
I can barely hear the geese
complaining in the vast sky,
flying over the living and the dead,
schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.
_________________________
A cold winter night.
After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to make myself something warm. Hot chocolate. Bailey's Irish Cream. White Christmas on the TV. Bing Crosby. Danny Kaye. Irving Berlin.
Saint Marty is dreaming of . . . alcohol.
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