The Match’s Strike

There, reflecting back at me
as I dusted off the old,
but sturdy, chestnut brown,
pine hope chest,
multiple burning memories.

Once re-purposed as a coffee table
sitting arms length from the sofa
where he would inevitably
doze off into a drunken stupor
clenching the cigarette not inhaled
but left to burn where ever it fell,
always missing the amber glass ashtray,
there was no hope the chest would
survive the alcohol induced carelessness

Darkened spots, muddied steps
seeking new stepping stones,
reminders of nights sleeping awake
listening for the strike of a match
waiting a few minutes then removing the
butt from his hand, or picking it up
from where ever it fell,
sometimes carrying a smoldering pillow outdoors.

Life consumed by alcohol
living years lost,
though lessons learned
and even though I rest better these days,
there is no doubt I would waken
from a dead sleep at the sound
of the strike of a match.