The world is on fire, baby

It's time to come inside.
The smoke is thick as a deep Indian tea,
The southern sky aflame with orange and red
As you call up honey
A smattering, a glitter, in
The evening's candle light.

It's time to come inside; the
Hearth draws near and the
Air shimmers as if alive.
Too often, have I felt the love
Upon my neck, a shuttering,
Even in sooty air.

It's time. It's time for something
other than the melancholic moans of
Dissatisfaction lingering like
Smoke on a barbecue, the coals white
Hot and desirous of fat and meat
Drips into the smoldering ash.

It's time to come inside; the
World is on fire, baby.

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By Peter A. Stinson

Copyright 2008 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Published by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

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