...Tinder Box...

At what precise temperature 

does a ghost begin to burn? 

Just what is the flash point 

   of the soul? 

 

Sure, a house can be ignited. 

It's all just so much tinder 

   waiting to happen. 

But when it's gone...

When tinder equals cinder... 

Does not the home remain? 

 

The arsonist may take 

the frame to the ground, 

and each consecutive 

structure thereafter, 

but no matter, 

the home remains. 

Every 

     home 

        remains.

 

There, in that room, 

Dinner's on the table. 

There, in that room, 

small hands 

tuck a doll 

into bed. 

There, in that room, 

someone makes love. 

There, in that room, 

a dog curls up 

before the fire. 

Before the fire... 

Just   before   the fire.

 

Never mind. 

This was more than a house. 

This was a home. 

A home full of joy. 

This home... No. 

There’s more here…

This home 

was not 

the only home. 

 

Here there was 

another house. 

And there, 

in that room, 

a dog cowers in the corner. 

There, in that room, 

dinner is strewn across the carpet. 

There, in that room, 

a young girl hides beneath her bed. 

There, in that room, 

a woman holds her battered face, 

while crimson tissues 

spiral down the toilet. 

 

And there, 

out across the street, 

a bruised boy stands 

 

waiting to torch that 

which will not burn, 

yet striking the match 

 

none the less. 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell