Cheap Matches

I keep a book of matches on my nightstand, yellow,

Proclaiming "Always, Save" and I don't really know why;

They never worked.

I was never the kind of kid to play with fire,

So maybe I'm out of practice but they always splinter between my fingers

Or else burst into life a half-second,

Tauntingly bright the way stars seem when you're out of the city,

With that cruel impermanent feeling that you've finally got the whole world in your control.

But then a wind-gust and darkness remind you of your place --

To be unseeing and unknowing,

To breathe catastrophic a birdsong plea for dreams into a life of cold actuality.