This is Not a Poem, Just Misplaced Haphazard Prose
(and purposefully obscure, ungrammatical Japanese)

The air gets colder
with each passing minute;
My red fleece socks,
They tell me:
Going out every night
is not more an option
than sucking ice
from frozen pipes.

冷たくなる一方
空気が、一分毎
赤い靴下は
管の氷吸い
同様、毎晩
出かけるはイカン。

My bicycle, alone
In the shed at night
Yearns for exercise.
I tell her:
Why face searing blasts
of icy wind on mine,
if I can crawl under a blanket
and become a junkie
for paraffin fumes?

一人ぼっちチャリ
真夜中に宿で
俺は慰める
風が顔を打つ
布団にホッとし
灯油を吸いつづ。

What was a picnic
A minute from now
Is a steaming nabe;
It tells me:
The rugged park
swapped its freedom
for the constrained softness
of the living room.

以前は夏花見
以後は鍋になる
耳に囁いた
公園が自由
居間の柔らかさ
に変身をした。

Drowsiness fills the void
Left by escaping heat;
Old master at my table
Tells me:
Food, warmth, inactivity,
the age-old highlights
of the winter season;
I’ll enjoy them
one yawn at a time.

寝欲が凝縮
暑さが出ながら
机に老師が
食(しょく)、暑(しょ)、動かずの
寒節の特徴
一方的に取れ。