the candle

last night we returned, late, and tired,

the kitchen dark, and the tiles cold,

only to find, the table candle burning,

lit hours before during morning coffee.


'our house could have burned down'

she said, and of course she was right.


'I don't normally forget to blow it out' I said,

and blew out the flame.


this is not a poem about how life

is like a candle. this is a poem about

how sometimes disaster can strike

because of our lack of attention,

but somehow it doesn't and that is