by Gary Charles Wilkens

Tan leaves looked like flashes of flame
running off the house in the high wind,
burning in the grungy oil sack light.

Eddie rattled the gas can from the shed,
clacking the gravel almost into sparks,
tossing it into the rusted Chevy’s bed.

Mist hung onto the windows like smoke,
forcing his gray eyes into a squint,
driving him nearly off the watery road.

Her Pa’s house had acres of oaks
stalking around it like a pack of mutts
longing to lick with dark red tongues.

Fuel splashed against the gnarled trunks,
curling like snakes in the twigs and dirt,
smelling like the evil pain of helpless loss.

Eddie held the match until it burned his finger,
letting it sail out across a sea of shame,
exploding into a smirking ring of flame.