On opening a door while it snows like a motherfucker

He was Bob, or looking for Bob, or there
was a Bob somewhere in his past, in his future.
I opened the door looking for pizza, found Bob
or Bob-seeker, standing shin-deep in snow,
his black hair glittering with confetti,
Bob’s-your-uncle, shivering.

“We are not Bob,” I said. I was dancing out
of the blown-in snow. I was looking left and right
for the pizza guy, for the headlights. Not
for a young man, a too-young-Bob, on foot
without food, wreathed in snow.

“Oh okay, oh sorry.” Who knows now
what he sought? There are clues in the way
he cocked his head like a confused terrier,
the way he shuffled back, perhaps wondering
who’s Bob? Who is he? Is he safe and warm?