I know we’ve coated all our motives
With veneer of stainless steel.
But honestly, I have no guilt
Inside the shiny pit of fire on the deck.
Oh, I’ve been told it won’t meet code
To put a blaze atop a bed of wood.
I also know that packaging,
With cardboard strips is flammable.
I’m sorry if it’s damnable that we can
Roast our primitive goose out here
Without the drudgery of rubbing sticks
Together. Not my fault that instant flame
Is now on sale for pennies – you remember –
Those copper coins we used to slip
In tongues of semi-shoes called loafers.
This life is more than we can hope for.
I’m just so over all the noise and rancor.
Let my solace be my anchor, so what
is beast in me is not just what is least in me.
My everlasting bonfire is the one I set.
Sometimes on mornings just when fog rolls in.
Sometimes in evenings just before the light
Grows dim, and we are forced to take
Account of any duties we’ve left out.
I think communal fire was the early Church –
A place to find within the smoke and warmth –
A respite from the steady fears
That tingled fingers and then stripped our gears.
The blaze and screen give respite from the din.
So let me stare into the fire.
Let me hear and smell desire.
In a moment then true life will
Break the spell. I’m just an old man on
A porch or deck, with no knees left
To genuflect, and wary of the gods
Who leave us cold. As we grow old.
I know it’s all too easy to decide
It’s way too hard.
Let me listen to my fire. Let me be.