I tore apart the tweaker’s shack
now, firewood for the winter
my little way of getting back
at them, when they burnt
their shelter to cinder
their field mice
escaped
to bunk with me
assuming they were evading
flame
yet all I’m doing here: waiting
for the half-sane
human being
to earn
my heating
a reason
to learn
the discipline
of a controlled
burn
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