Walking Different Patterns

The flames dance up in the same pattern
over and over again because it’s gas—not real.
I lean closer because my fingernails are bluish
and when I touched your arm you yelped.
Slowly I gain warmth but a chill rises inside.

That old stress of situation and dread of entrapment.
But I smile and try to tell you all about it. I tell you
to keep it all a secret and you reply, “of course.”
But not everything is on course.

Sometimes I wander alone at night—thinking and wondering.
I see the brambles of blackberries on my left
and near them moan old Patterson’s cattle.
I try to keep my feet on the yellow lines but I soon forget
and off I go to pick a pear off a loaded tree.

The shapes of trees eventually scare me past my gloom
and I turn and head for home. I slide open my window and sit
on the window ledge with my bare feet inside—dirtying my
purple pieced quilt my mother made for me.

The flames danced on when we walked out.
You went your way and I went mine. I walked alone
again and I thought about different kinds of flames—how
they don’t always stay the same.
Or perhaps it’s me that changes.

I stopped a moment for a cup of coffee and
as I encircled my cold hands around I realized
how much I wanted something else to hold—
something warm and real.