Still Flickering in the Draft

The party was a hammer in my skull,

a dozen voices scraping against the grain.

I slipped out early—cowardly and dull—

and drove back through the needles of the rain.

I thought the house was dead, the power out,

until I saw that yellow, stubborn spear.

I’d left it lit, a lapse I forgot about,

burning in the kitchen, strangely clear.

It’s starved the air. A pool of melted wax

has spread across the laminate, a white

and flattened thumbprint where the tension slacks.

I’m standing in the doorway in the light,

not ready to blow it out and face the dark,

or the fact I couldn't last a single night

without escaping. There’s a tiny spark

left in the wick, a small and shaking fright.