Here's the poem prompt for today.
My wife said "I didn't realize it, but car fires scorch the road for a long time." She pointed at a blackened bit of road. "Hell fire scorches longer," I said. We arrived to our destination in silence.
The devil is always playing tricks of fire. Out here, inside too. We told the fire inspector so, and he just stared. "You folks aren't from around here, are you?" We definitely were not. We definitely were playing what folks like to call "insider baseball." I know nothing about a cutter or a slider, but I know something of the devil himself. I know that sulfurous tinge in the space where nose and throat meet, the tickle in the back of your knowledge box. I know that the water regularly looks like an oil spill caught fire on top of it, and I know, sure as Hell's born, what it looks like coming out of the tap. I have swallowed it down my heathen esophagus, felt the acids of my sinning stomach gurgle up in protest, in praise song?
The destination served small hot dogs wrapped in bacon. Chocolate fondue was allegedly present as well. Perhaps we deserved this, these Earthen pleasures. My wife, seeming to read my thoughts smiled and said "This is just temporary."
She was right. Everything eventually stops, mercifully.
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