corduroys is to see
civilization start-
the wish-
whish-whisk
of your strut is flint
striking rock-the spark
of a length of cord
rubbed till
smoke starts-you stir
me like coal
and for days smoulder.
I am no more
a Boy Scout and, besides,
could never
put you out-you
keep me on
all day like an iron, out
of habit-
you threaten, brick-
house, to burn
all this down. You leave me
only a chimney.