The poet carries kindling in her pocket,
blank crumples of paper,
The green smell of mowed grass,
the plop of river stones,
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,
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.