The orange flame gutters, and it goes out
not knowing what the story was about.

Prison bars cast their shadows on the bed
for a sentence ended and words unsaid.

The guard looks in, a twinkle in his eye,
left—as we are—to wonder and to sigh;

that the light gone out won’t come back again
to hear the tin cup clamor till the end.

# # #

In Our Cups by WC Roberts
originally published November 1, 2010



WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.

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