Sit Her Down, Make Her Understand.

The house was coming down anyway,
sure. But without that single match?
It would have taken years, and you weren't
willing to wait. You torched that thing
from the inside--what did you think
would happen?

And now the walls are papered with fire
and the floor is blackened books,
and you will stand here, little firebug,
until the doors are embers. It was
your match, your sweaty fingers.
Now it will be your sooty skin.
You can do nothing for now
but wait, and in the meantime
pray for rain.

1 comment:

Mr. Apron said...

This poem reminded me of this song:


(You should really buy the CD-- his voice is gorgeous.)

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