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He had piles of matches.
Bought a collection
from the estate of
some old lady who
collected matches.

I wondered if it was
a record of where she'd been
or an appreciation for
The Art of the Match -
a coffee table book
I've not yet seen
but is surely in progress.
Or maybe a wishlist
places her friends had been
without her.

He struggled to find
a match that would light.
At their age they had lost
most their function.
I watched it catch
and he lit my cigarette.
I looked around.

It was nice here
on the surface,
but I could tell
this is where happiness dies
and I left
as he searched
for other matches
to strike.

Posted December 29, 2002 12:42 AM | On This Day: 2006