"First Snow" appropriately from the laptop plays,
Cold waft drifts, entering through an open window.
Catcalls and wolf-whistles at two:fourty-six AM,
Darkness in my room, solely lit by a monitor shimmer.
Mirror at side, where a single sillhouette dithers
Tall wardrobe beside that mimics the clothes hanger.
Short shelf by dirty plate, cuttlery and pan littered
That skyscraper strut of books, barely supporting.
The Snow outside, stages screaming actors,
Gradually voices sour, laptop fans hum.
Song nearing its end grows louder,
Feet cold. The hands, the fingertips sweating.
Snow settles on trees, melts on floor
The mobile silent, the bed behind calls.
Voices beyond halt, but play goes on
Twice-bespectacled sight sees all:
The joke that snarls, the retort that barks
Billows of condensation and white dust.
Two boys on a crystal bed, contorted shapes
Lost in a white world by black snow draped.
