By the fire tonight, my wineglass
gapes at the ceiling, weary,
begging me to fondle its rotund belly.
The footstool droops in a stupor
near the flames.
Mozart comes on the radio
for the third time this evening
but the wooden furniture
is just too tired to dance.
The lamps a skeptic of the firelight,
having its way with the logs.
The whole room and I
shake our heads and wonder
when that infernal fire
will have it done with
and let us tumble off to slumber.
Fly, flames, fly, lick the logs clean,
and be gone!
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah
Sloat would be pleased to hear from you.