Cigarette Burns
Sprinkled and clumped like coffee cake,
Tiny tufts of beige create the mix
of soft and coarse against my skin
That makes the carpet tickle
My cold, bare feet.
In a corner, spread like constellations:
Five black circles.
Shallow, rough
Craters in the surface-
Now cold, but once
Warm, blazing away like a forest fire
In a field of dry, summer grass.
Contained and cut short
Like a UFO crop circle.
I trace them,
My finger, the guilty cigarette-
Where the fire had kissed the cheek of my home,
And left it singed.
This poem is about:
Me
Our world
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