a big silver trash
can, that's what i need.
galvanized aluminum that makes
a flat thump.
a tight fitting lid and a black
thick 55 gallon plastic liner.
and i'll scoop everything into
it with my ash shovel,
with it's hollow tube handle and
it's tight angular edges.
a box of wooden matches is what
i need.
strike anywhere kitchen matches
in a thin cardboard box
that slides open like a silverware
drawer.
and that firecracker smell that
leaps out, i need that too.
i need to feel those light splinters
of wood, with their red hot heads
and the little cap of white on
top.
i need to hear the scratch - pfffffffffft,
of matchhead on rough sandpaper
box side.
and i need to hear the flame chewing,
hear it consuming the square shard of wood.
and i'll watch it all burn.
...the plastic, spewing it's toxic
black, choking smoke.
little dribbles of petroleum will
spill onto fuel below,
spreading the destruction.
...the paper, curling orange, blue
& red,
then into wispy black ash,
still holding onto a ghost of it's
former shape & image,
until something shifts & it's
crushed into fine black powder.
i'll watch it all burn & maybe
it'll make me feel better.
maybe it'll ease the disappointment
& sadness
that sits in my belly like a greasy
bowl of cold soup,
and makes my stomach churn like
a little kid caught in a lie.
...but then again, maybe it won't.
maybe it'll be the cool water for
the hot hurt in my heart
& it'll hiss & slowly turn
from glowing white ash to cold black chunks.
...but then again, maybe it won't.
cause metal won't burn.
it just turns from a lovely shine
to sooty black with halos of blue & purple.
cause cloth never burns right.
the fire chews on it for a bit,
like a swatch of tough cartilage,
then gives up & moves on to
more tender flesh.
cause dirt & rocks don't burn.
they are, like the metal,
silent witnesses, observing the
hunger & verocity of the flame,
and although they are not consumed,
they too are forever charred.
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