There are Christmas lights above the window,

Bright, electric and plastic against the closed shutters,

A poor man's paradise. Red paper flowers hang

Across the curtains and two-dollar paintings

Cling to the walls. Somewhere inside, I'm sitting

In a box, looking at a box, trying to think

Out of the box. This is real life irony, where I'm pouring

My soul into a keyboard, and pulling my thoughts

Out of an iPod. And somewhere outside, the snow

Falls and the thunder rolls, and the mountains

Climb into the sky. I'm only climbing

Into bed.