Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.
A Divorced Dad Lights
a Match in the Dark
What happened before, it’s uncertain.
Some conjecture could be entertained:
Maybe he was powering the microwave
And the fridge from the same Pre-War socket.
Maybe a squirrel, eager and naïve,
Made itself into a mortal circuit, up on the
Power lines. The author, the author of this poem
Was running late. Missed a train. The world does not
Cotton tardiness,
And sometimes all that’s left for the belated are fragments,
antecedents,
The custodians of memory.
There’s a box on the ground, and two spent sticks.
Perhaps he struck the first phosphorus….
(the author pauses, frantic for one last word for
alliterative cleverness,
Readers will forgive if you’re witty, right?)
Philosopher?
(no – too disconnected)
Phoenix!
(ah! Now you’re
cooking!)
….and watched the lip of flame lap against the matchstick,
Seeing his home, with new, threatening shadows, thin,
speckled light,
And then cursing as the fire bit his fingers, unaware,
And fell to the floor.
He lit a second match,
Somehow smote the stray fire from the first,
And lit a candle.
Birthday cake scented, Clearly
he didn’t buy it.
Was it a gift? Was
it hers? Did she leave it behind?
There’s no love for it, that’s sure.
It’s ringed with dust.
Bears a sickly, sweet smell.
Based on the wax, must have burned for hours.
He lit that candle, sat there in the clip of light,
And then did – what?
This is where an author would lie. Strike
down a narrative
Taut and absolute.
Support it with lush, stark imagery.
But not today. Today, that man shall keep his mystery,
Those hours spent bearing a candle, alone, self-comforted.
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