There’s a boy who lives in my matchboxes.
Don’t laugh, it is very true-
Every matchbox that currently lies in my habitat,
Either hidden from plain sight in gaps between a book and a file
Or the ones that I forget I had in my bags and smaller bags,
They all have a boy that lives in them.
It was a habit,
That initially, I laughed at,
Often got irritated with,
Often, I found it cute and smiled about it,
Then a while later of knowing and unknowing and knowing again,
I attached this little quirk with a boy
And I’m writing a rough verse about it.
This, you can laugh at.
He lit what he had to light,
And whether anyone was looking at him or not
Or conversing with him,
He slid that burnt out match-stick back in the box.
The thing with matchboxes is,
You always lose track of how many matches it possibly houses.
Before you know it,
There are about three left
And you hold an un co-operative smoke-system between your fingers.
Imagine, when it’s early in the AM side of things,
You are a rickety, half-open-minded mess,
And one of those few sticks are burnt out.
Or imagine this,
Half box full,
And the universe is in a playful mood-
Every third time you pick a match- its the one with its head burnt out.
This boy some how signed my fire with his habit,
Somehow wrote his name on chances to come
And every time I dig out a matchbox,
And happen to pick the extinguished little wood piece,
He says hello.