“Slow Fire” by Egan Millard

July was a rabid,
wide-eyed creature,
so much black fur
and hot, wet breath.
You could sense it
lurking around your house
long into a sleepless night,
perhaps even hear the faint tapping
of claws on pavement
as it skulked across your driveway.

August was a widow
across the street.
You never met her, but
she knew your story
better than you did.
You could see her
smoking cigars on her balcony
each afternoon,
the transistor radio in her lap
whispering to her.
Sometimes, it looked like she was staring
right at you.

And now the
slow fire of September
suffuses the neighborhood.
The afternoon sun ignites
the sycamores;
the cicadas begin
their evening chant.
Reeves Street burns
with a hand-me-down Yearning.
Somewhere, a guitar-

More poetry at Used Furniture.



  1. Good stuff.

  2. wow, this is beautiful, “Somewhere, a guitar-” great line!

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