You curl towards me with your scrubby, grubby head,
your long neck bent
as if in whispered conspiracy.
I turn my dignified frame from your dying flame
finished with you and your insignificant fizzle.
Where is your stiff wooden stance?
Your pride, the fire so briefly ignited?
Although distracting for an instant
you were never the object of my desire
just a disposable tool in my kit
and now the tinder sparks, the kindling sets afire,
licking my logs with exotic tongues of purest gold
while your small glory is spent
and a more enduring fire warms my hands.
Poor skinny matchstick,
not worthy to be remembered as
an old flame, or even a one night stand
I flick your cooling frame into the grate
did you really think you were a match for me?
©Jane Paterson Basil