Anger

The match strikes
against the grain,
fledgling the flame's
growling arrival–

And it burns.

Flickering up,
but fading down
like a light atop a buoy
in the surf of a storm.

The scorched head
leans lower, reaching
for the flame, hoping
it'll finish the job, yearning
for oblivion.

And before it snuffs
within the grip
of my fingertips,
I put it out
with a fire hose.