for christopher robin

kevin young

song of smoke

To watch you walk
cross the room in your black

corduroys is to see
civilization start -

the wish -
whish-whisk

of your strut is flint
striking rock - the spark

of a length of cord
rubbed till

smoke starts - you stir
me like coal

and for days smolder.
I am no more

a Boy Scout and, besides,
could never

put you out - you
keep me on

all day like an iron, out
of habit -

you threaten, brick
house, to burn

all this down. You leave me
only a chimney.