Today's poem is by Richard Garcia


        My footsteps are loud, as if I were in a large room. I find a book of matches in my pocket and light one. I almost burn my fingers as the light goes out, leaving a trace of sulfur in the air. I try another and hold it high. Ropes. Curtains. I kneel, holding the match low. Wooden floor. I walk ahead slowly, sliding my feet, and almost step off into space. I hear a gasp. Someone chuckles. Apparently I'm being watched. I count the matches. I don't want to waste any. Maybe I can find a candle. A flashlight. A light switch. I prepare myself to light the next match. I'm getting better at this.

Copyright © 2014 Richard Garcia All rights reserved
from The Chair
BOA Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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