A broken lamp
lies at the base of the open door
which lets inside one inch of light,
creating shadows.

Deep gashes slice through the walls:
jet-black mouths set between twisted blue lips,
perpetually sneering in the darkness.

Wooden building blocks
lie next to
Where The Wild Things Are--
still open to page six.

A once-white rug
banished to the corner
crusts with age.

I sit amid it all, brooding.

Gasoline trickles
and pools
on the floor.

I flick matches and let them
fall.

Fire sweeps across the room.

Blocks lie next to book, ablaze
and rug crusts anew
as conflagration rises
to gaping mouths.