The pause between

This morning,
the kettle hissed its tin grievances,
Winston glared, a creditor of crumbs,
and I saw—
each nick of life arrives unaddressed,
a match struck, waiting my breath to flare.

The email blind to my name,
the ex bronzed by a sea I’ll never taste,
the magpie’s strafing swoop last spring—
sparks, all,
until I, mayor of this flickering town,
vote for war or stillness.

How long I’ve lived
missing that gap—
the held breath
where flame might falter,
where light bends across the spoon
and rage cools to a shadow.

Yesterday,
I nearly cursed a man’s crooked car,
his tires a taunt to my worth—
laughable,
this habit of scrawling my name
on every stray ember.

But I’m learning,
slow as steam shapes to steel,
to let the match glow uncaught—
to stand, mayor and fool,
in the pause
where nothing is mine
unless I strike it so.

FSF