From Fred Chappell's "On an Antique Picture":
"We sat smoking when the orders came"
to use our flaming fingers to burn today's
one and only meal, a non-existent fire
except in our eyes, a literal burn
every time we dared to shut them.
Close your eyes; don't let it be me who
willingly takes your life because you
ventured into that place where K.W.
ordered us not to go--defy him
if you dare, but do not tip the scale
with the tips of your fingers
to give our acquaintance unfair advantage
over the approaching and too-young
(supposed) hoard--or is it horde?
That new program about Hoarders we aren't
allowed to see because of its graphic
nature, too much for children, like we
supposedly are, according to the singers
we dared to listen to while closing
our eyes in silent reverence of the fire
inside our pressing fingertips.
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