Sponge

Self-absorption
Is a quality of children.

Adults mostly lose it
As they grow older
And learn to see
The world around them on fire.

Burning, burning everywhere –
The earth, the trees, the buildings,
The edifices that hold up our society.

Burning high –
The heavens and faith and good works.

The child thinks only of her doll
While around her the curtains burn
And the wax on the doll face melts
As the father in shirtsleeves, huffing,
Snatches his little girl
And charges through the window.

Absorption
Is also a quality of sponges.

There are only napkins at the table,
And I use one, a red napkin, to wipe
Your spilled coffee
As you rummage in your briefcase,
For your phone, your calendar,
And God Knows What Else,

While my words melt in the howl of flames.

The waiter returned with a sponge,
As I looked out the window – people, cars, buses combusting –
The sponge – pink – absorbed the coffee, vanished in the howl of customers.
I wanted to take that sponge and hold it to my face, to wipe the wax.
But that would have been childish.