Candle Wax Voices
On the morning of all the saints, he steps out of the sunlight like a match emerges from a dying flame. I’m driving too fast. I barely see him in his clandestine black suit and carrying a Wal-Mart sack until he steps out of my path. He never looks back.
voices beyond . . .
candle wax crusted
on the windowsill
Today’s also the first day for the November Poem A Day Challenge. Today’s prompt was “matches.”