What are you waiting for? A burning invitation
on your front porch? Plumes of dancing smoke
To scorch down your neighbors' houses.
Writing arson and a subcutaneous humorist
burning into what you touch.
Awkward attempts without malice.
Lives escaping past, and passing before
they know you. Try your hand.
Unsteady protagonist to ask, a polite glass of water
and what's there inside.
Furniture spots and rubble,
those crystal plate collections.
Torching yourself in, your own dinner invitation
without address or a table to lay your pen
to fix the damage.
Your small combustible portion
a gentle potluck offering, laughter and hurt
and their unsure skin, absorbing
what you wish were your words
smoldering light, from their rooms and yours
coming untrapped.
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