Living In a Box

The coldest day of the year is one month after the shortest
Or so they say
But there is a lonely, bone-felt cold on New Year’s night
Huddled in a box.
 
March forward brings the confusion of a changing clock
Unaware and without a watch
That was sold for a burger or a can of lager
Enjoyed in my box.
 
The nights become warmer for a while
And searching for a cooling breeze
I open the four, branded cardboard flaps
On the side of my box.
 
Warmth is short-lived as the chaos of time returns
It gives me back an hour
An extra hour of cold and wet
To spend alone in my box.
 
Then no Christmas for me
Except the one grabbed from a passing charity
No warmth for me
But the false-warmth of cheap cider
No love for me
And no one to give love to.
 
Just me, my blanket and my box
Huddled and cold once more on a New Year’s night.