“Burning haystack”

Burning haystack in a lonesome field;
There are no clouds but the ones we make.
The smoke is a color of churning eggs.
It smells like garlic grown from evergreens.

Lipstick on his happy heart,
she checked a pocket mirror for her ink and scars.
The only love that she wants to make—
is the only friendship that she forsakes.
The only difference between you and me
is the same for everyone who falls asleep,
watching Late Night on a tiny screen.

Burning haystack in a living room;
The smoke alarm is melted through.
She sleeps through suffocating dreams.
She sleeps through the burning sheets.
The only silence in her happy home
is the comfort of her enemies,
counting life insurance policies.
Her mom and dad pretend to grieve.

narrative poem written on 12-20-2009 by: on mattkane.com
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