What Comes of It

Somebody is always expecting you home.
Somebody's saying you've been gone too long
and stayed too late, and no good can come of it.

Go on now. You see, it's just ahead:
yellow flame against a late spring sky,
your life blazing and secret, lightning struck,

started where the blue clock hangs in back
and lays its shadow down upon the floor
like a crucifix, or a tavern sign.

A yellow scream against a quiet sky.
I say scream but that's not what we do.
We can't tell, from this far, what's on fire.