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
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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