Some Clever Poet

I sit on the bed and finish up the bottle—
a wine called cleverly, “Mischief Maker.”
Some clever poet wrote that, I’m sure,
some clever poet who goes around like me
with no pants on complaining in the night
about the cold that isn’t really cold, yet
won’t do anything to correct it
like throw a blanket over
or put some damn pants on 
or close the window
or love
or write something meaningful
to stay warm with.

-M.