I take when I leave
home. Pithy and sharp,
plucking the strings
as a harp. It has a golden

case, polished
and engraved. I lay it
down on wood from trees
in the neighborhood. It dances

pirouettes smoking
cigarettes. Lighting up
as a firefly every man's lie. It's the
torch everyone can see

from my back porch,
periodically. It fills my nights
with song. And strings
the days along.