The fire is barely contained by metal and mesh,
a wild thing, for a time, held captive.
The heat reaches out.
Your tired soul is warmed,
a kindred spirit seeking its escape.
About this poem
Who among us hasn’t thought of selling everything and disappearing from the world?
Wild Thing by the Trogs is playing on the stereo at my favorite diner.
I vaguely remember being young. At times I miss being irresponsible.
From those things, this poem. The picture was taken in my back yard.