The moon, a faint crescent, scarce gave enough light
To mark the Sandias far off in the night
Against the horizon, from whence came the breeze
Whose icy cold blast brought grown men to their knees.
It whistled at windows; its near-glacial breath
Soon gave the smart foyer the cold chill of death.
The woman, whose pacing this last quarter-hour
Had echoed like gunshots, an expression sour
Upon her fine features, now glanced at her watch
And she, fortified from some well-hidden scotch,
Now called down the stairs, to the studio-den,
"I'm waiting, my darling, turn off CNN!"
An acknowledging grunt from the basement was heard;
The tv's loud blaring was clicked off mid-word.
A shuffling, shambling climb up the stair
And Hoagie emerged with an ill-tempered glare.