Matches among other things that were not allowed <br />never would be <br />lying high in a cool blue box <br />that opened in other hands and there they all were <br />bodies clean and smooth blue heads white crowns <br />white sandpaper on the sides of the box scoring <br />fire after fire gone before <br /> <br />I could hear the scratch and flare <br />when they were over <br />and catch the smell of the striking <br />I knew what the match would feel like <br />lighting <br />when I was very young <br /> <br />a fire engine came and parked <br />in the shadow of the big poplar tree <br />of Fourth Street one night <br />keeping its engine running <br />pumping oxygen to the old woman <br />in the basement <br />when she died the red lights went on burning<br /><br />William Stanley Merwin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-burnt-child/
