yet not realised that your decorated,
thin cold icing and sweet to taste, lips
will be ruined from every second cigarette butt.
because your eyes are olive,
tried and tested and true.
Feed the fire with ambition
and eventually the black metal
will crack, contort into all sorts
and not be recognisable the next time
you sit at your winter, dining-room table.
Hot ash will rumble through the chimney stack,
plundering it of brick skin atop mortar
pointed veins, running parallel and perpendicular,
gray-painted-black chains linking flue to fire- heart
of the house- to bedrooms of your daughters next to
the bathroom's water, coming from newly cleaned taps.
The carpet's not down yet,
but forget that whilst you rest,
stay stubborn asleep until your
fire heart is refreshed.