Why worry my spleen, my mad?
I deserve a better gig
than holding these cinders
Fire has a purpose, but
not one I am always
able to understand.
I love to hold a torch,
which is not the same
as carrying a torch.
My mind swirls orange, red,
yellow, flame-like.
80 mph winds sweep through.
Fire’s wake requires tearing down
or rebuilding. Your choice.
I’ll wait; hold a cup of water.
Drink it slowly as you consider
my offer. Your hair is gray,
You don’t have much time.
Published in the January/February 2023 issue of West Trestle Review.