The Fire is Still There

There are times,  
when blessings must  
be counted.  
 
This is one,  
at 6 a.m., I am alone &  
lit up like a ghost  
by the screen of a mute tv.  
 
The fireplace is burning,  
it’s nervous flame licks  
at my fingers like a dog,  
waiting for a bone  
to come from his Messiah’s hand,  
like we wait for salvation,  
panting, with eyes darting.  
 
The fire is all that is left,  
the only source of warmth  
remaining in this house.  
 
There is no embrace,  
no kisses, no hand,  
to take the chill  
out of this damned wet  
country.  
 
She remains,  
only out of profane courtesy,  
& need of tuition,  
gifted when I was still  
part of the plan & relevant.  
 
Now I am left to sleep,  
marooned on the outer  
edges of the house,  
in the smallest room,  
a strategic move you see,  
less border to defend.  
 
So at times like this,  
where joy has been sacrificed  
for practicality,  
the birds still sing,  
the sun still rises,  
beer is in the fridge,  
my bike starts,  
and of course,  
the fire is still there,  
dumbly burning in eternal  
stupid optimism,  
hoping that someday  
it will be released,  
from its glass cage  
to devour the world,  
and all of its sadness.