The poet carries kindling in her pocket,

blank crumples of paper,

and waits.

The green smell of mowed grass,

the plop of river stones,

moonlight-dipped eyes…

She lives in a matchbox,

her ideas are matchsticks.

Flames start in her stomach,

intoxicate and warm her from the inside out

like a swig of dark whiskey.

Intense heat settles in her fingertips,

she writes whip-quick, to-the-point.

Her muse flits like a ghost

whispering through laundry lines.

Here one moment,

(blink, snap)

gone the next.

Time eludes her –

slips through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.

Her fingernails soon turn tar-black and slow –

a burned-out wick once more.