4300
and ratchet up global warming
like bubbling vegetable stew
with tsk... tsk... heard
courtesy Greta Thunberg,
who would utter "how dare you..."
I bundle with layers to stave off cold
energy efficiency drilled courtesy
me late mother conserving
nonrenewable resources she extolled
now ewe best heed following suggestion
wool worth 3d printing than wearing
a sheep doubled over
along dotted line to fold
cuz expending (fossil fuel)
leaving carbon footprint
would immediately being lectured
by ecology conscious eldest daughter,
(a University of Pennsylvania
biomedical engineering alumna)
who would mildly scold.
Myself and thee missus holed up
here within Highland Manor Apartments
(unit B44 in case
you wanna drop me a line)
we're here moost
every cold January day
sipping warm cup
of our favorite beverage
exotic coffee latte brew
suits this muttering pup
actually yours truly
a doggone ole
shorter haired (compared
when poem initially got crafted)
pencil necked geezer.
He can be found moost
any given warm Green Day
like an American idiot
shuffling along boulevard of broken dreams
overhead skies colored rosy gunmetal gray
occasional huff fro
zen cloud slashing solar ray
heating inside cozy nook,
though outside temperature brisk,
nevertheless for winter pleasantly refreshing,
while I sit here heavily clad,
hence yours truly quite toasty within
perfect weather for wedding,
especially one hashtagged December/May.
After dusk i.e.
established misnomer known as sunset
a legacy from heliocentric theory
(the astronomical model
that places the sun at the center
of the solar system,
with the Earth and other planets
orbiting around Gaia)
occurs 5:35?PM Post Meridiem
heavens quickly turn jet
black today - Sunday,
January 19, 2025 (EST)
whereby hello darkness
my old friend
(analogous to the edge of night)
lulls one into sleepiness, I bet
dollars to donuts impossible mission
to keep eyelids opened,
particularly if sleep debt
necessary to pay the sandman,
who knows maybe you gotta get get
comfortably numb vis a vis
stinging ice crystals
creating a winter wonderland
temporarily rendering me unconscious
state, whereby yours truly
dreaming of a white Lost Horizon
in the mythical valley of Shangri-La
analogous to eventual Elysian Fields,
where divine creator
conjuring Nirvana and/or
a place called Willoughby
if a believer,
said Almighty eventually met.
