Wisdom Convention

Just a starting point

I search for an olive spear

Lost in the scorched frame 

Of Uncle BBQ’s 

Burned out house

His piggy bank

Once smiling fat and content

Cocoons a three pound puddling

Mound of black copper

I hear the singing

A chorus of chowhounds’

Siren tirade

The fear of smoke

Grabs at my hot melting heels

No more sleeping over with the cousins

The fine China lies scattered and broken

In the street where in his desperation

Uncle had thrown it

Rose bushes hold 

Fourteen old suits

One delicate hanky

Banners of a bitter fate

I maneuver through the smoldering remains

A child’s tentative gait

Investigation the blistering memories

The time I burnt my Hands On CRAFT the dead cat discovered under the porch

Making my own pizza at 10 having perfected the recipe

The blows to the head

Mother sobbing on the toilet, door open

Face in her hands

The first enemy realized

Was fire