Sunday, January 11, 2015

Matches
My home is a ramshackle shed. There is no electricity, no heat, no insulation. Just desperate old rags plug the spaces between the planks of wood. On winter nights when the wind blows hard I see my breath; I think of death. I sleep in my clothes, the blankets that cover me are threadbare. I just want it to get warm and live. My life is like a ramshackle shed. If I had a book of poems I'd burn it. But I don't even have matches and a chiminey smokes easy only in my minds eye. In the morning, if my heart still beats and my blood isn't frozen like a winter stream, I'll go to the library and get warm. I'll find people just like me. Some are different; they got skirmishs inside their heads. I ignore them. When I get food in my belly, like the soup from the church kitchen, I think I'm going to live long. But at night it gets cold. The rags pressed between the wood planks shake from the wind. Lucky I don't have matches, or I might light the rags and close my eyes and feel the warmth come to me like a last summer breeze.

3 comments:

Human Paradox said...

This is why you need to keep writing SC. There is a simplicity to this powerful humility and in the shivering weakness of the heart's frozen night, salvation can come in the form of eternal sleep, but it also manifests itself in the struggle to keep stoking the fire of hope. There's still a light on in an old church kitchen.

Brother Ollie said...

I echo HP - you got a great voice SC.

Great piece!

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