Irregular Fires

He sat up straight.

As the moon’s crescent sailed across the sky

Black and with a depth

You wouldn’t expect it from such a solid color

Seeing long past what you thought you could

He felt like a puppet

Tied up by strings

But he always had

Led through life

By golden-gloved finger tips

Pulling legs and arms

And directing him

Moving whatever way the gods would yank him

But today felt different

He sat up sharp

Usually they guided

And he followed

But this felt forced

Rough

Like the golden gloves

And delicate fingers

Light

Soft

Smooth

Were replaced with a set too large to grasp the wooden control

He yanked the sheets from his bed

And let his feet hit the

Cold hard floor

He rushed his way through morning chores

And slammed the door

Behind

Him

On his way out

Today was not soft

Today was rough

Every move he made was rough

His wheels skidded on the road

And his turns were sharp

The brakes didn’t pump even

Short and long

His foot felt foreign as he hit the pedals

And when he rolled into the driveway

That night

Dark as the one before

He hoped he could be led –

And not pushed,

Like before.               

3/24/2015

Riley Welch