Furious orange wounds
rimmed in charcoal
betray last night's secret:
died, almost died,
charred in an accidental inferno
due to the lazy application
of a long-standing addiction.
Warm,
paper-burn stink clings
to the heat of an early morning
- July.
The slowly-creeping wet heat
in stark contrast
to the quickflash realization of predawn:
my bed was on fire.
The must never know,
those in the cells opposite -
surely, threats of neglectful destruction
warrant the hasty eviction
of the new tenant.
Thus I,
the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon
watching for mattress fire
have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns
and will sleep
to avoid dwelling on thoughts
of bonfires.