I sit with a zippo in my hands, lit,
dancing against the pages of
a paperback novel I hesitated to write.
Flame licks worn page corners,
begs to devour the stories inside,
and I don’t hesitate to allow it’s feast.
Inferno engulfs, delighted by the memoir;
allows me to watch the burn
as singed words become ashed remains.
When it’s over, the flame flickers and fades,
content with its full belly
and I sit back in awe.
Gone are the tragedies and terrors,
and with it I close my eyes and the zippo;
satisfied and yet still hungry.
What else can I light on fire?