Paper, dried twigs, a match.  Light the paper, kindle the twigs.
Then lay thumb thick branches atop the small conflagration.

Like young princesses waiting to be bathed.

The paper dissolves, lost in carbon to the universe.
The twigs hold fast to the fire, pyre for royalty.

Larger logs, like lazy kings, nap on thrones.

Two down, two across, tic-cat-toe, flue air, sentient roar.
Lullabies lick orange-diamond demon cats in the hearth.

Queens purr steady in updraft; a house of fire tumbles,
from the top to the bottom, humbled to kindle the next

prince foolish enough to want to be king.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013