Fireside Tryst

You'd fallen asleep
this time, teary-eyed
with this longing.
I left the window
open, the streets sang
a lullaby through it,
and the lamps danced
on your face to 
its melody.


I smoked a cheap cigarette,
flicking the ashes out
the same window,
and watched you,
tie still on, not even
askew. Business man,
never off the clock.


The polyester bedspread
had monet-style colors
all watered down,
maybe from the years.
The melting of flowers
or shapes, bleeding
into the edges of your
suit, with its clean angles.


The house had been
ablaze, on the lawn
at age seven I had stood
and let the dew gather
on the hem of my nightgown
as respirating firemen
swam inside the flames.
The air was thick
in the summer night,
and the flames licked
at the sky, thirsty.
A yearning I never
understood.


The shapes of flame made
shadow on the neighboring 
houses, their walls straight 
as soldiers. I'd never seen
better watercolors in 
all my life.


I feel the same
burn in my face,
the glow reflected 
from a childhood 
tragedy. The same
color across the room,
and your crisp angles 
the houses on my
left, right.


I know I'm the fire,
and that black suit is
my sky.
A tryst that
never worked out
for either party
involved that night.