burning top to bottom
droplets of hot waxen beads
hanging down to his *******
he, a man of books and tweed
golden as the leaves in autumn

his light snuffed out in December
a cold, grey dark cloud
as I remember
I, a woman in the crowd
couldn't hold tight her temper

now left is a puddle cake
and it's growing thin
rutted in a waxy circle I skate
falling and splitting my skin
taut is the ice over the lake
breaking both heart and shin