September poetry challenge – Day 24

Necessary change of seasons

The arsonist is late this time.

Is he stuck in traffic?
Has he forgotten?
Has he even been called for?
Did you leave a voicemail?

After all this time
One would assume
He never forgets,
So that option is out of question.

But he is late,
And that fact starting to show.

As pleasant as it might feel
Not to have him arrive,
Clumsy and morose,
Reeking of decomposing roadkill,
Inevitably turning pulsating lungs into
Salty, dusty, grey fluff,
Don’t you also miss

How lovely they burn,

Red, orange, yellow,
Little tongues of flame?

The arsonist is late.
Time-stamping among the living-dead
Is becoming ungainly.

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