90. Sexy Fire

I think I have addressed my some-might-say obsession with fire before. That's okay. The beauty of obsession is that you can just keep talking about whatever it is you obsess about.

We're in Reno now, and Megan's parents have a firepit in their backyard. I have spent many a summer evening there, watching the embers burn down and stoking them back up, long after everyone else has gone to bed.

Dang, pit, you look hot. Or could, if I set you on fire.

We saw each other again today, and it was like we'd never been apart. I wrote it a sonnet. And, because I was feeling inspired, I made sure to put some alliteration in every line. I'm quite proud of this one.

Oh firepit, you sly seducer, you,

all topped with tinder, prompting, “Play with matches.”

Or saving such, a lighter works in lieu

to tease the twigs with flame 'til something catches.

Your slinky soot-stained sides will hold the heat

and try to channel chimney-ward the smoke.

To manage massive logs and twigs petite

I'll need a strong stout stick with which to poke.

To roast a rack of ribs, or sear some s'mores?

The blaze I build works best to burn the latter.

To melt your marshmallows or coal their cores,

it's tow'ring tongues of flick'ring flames that flatter.

I forge the fire, but name me not its master;

to think such thoughts is drawing down disaster.

Megan, sadly, doesn't like it. Her aversion to marshmallows is so intense that she can't like a poem with them in it, no matter its genius.