Inordinate Flame

While some agonize over their wills, their funeral arrangements, their burial details, others know a truth beyond preparation. Such are the many unidentified, buried at Potter’s Field on Hart’s Islan

Inordinate Flame
                    by Odin Roark

Back then
Working behind cold water flat walls
Electrical power
A dream
Hot running water
A fantasy
His candle
Life saving

Under meager light
Flew his nubby pencil
The written napkins piling
The passion recorded
Their accessibility
Questionable

So went this simple being
Bereft of fancy clothes
Old Spice grooming
Even everyday shoes

Such plight was embraced
For he had no regrets
No aspiration to become
Tomorrow’s populist extinction

Willing to just be
Who he was
What was his experience
How such might empower

Times proved hard

Odd jobs paid the rent
Two-burner cooked the stew
Re-melted candles
Made the light

Finally

Regrets absent
His pencil
His napkins
Joined him

As Hart’s Island
Gave final solace
To another who labored anonymously
Died anonymously
Remain buried
Anonymously

Deep down
His small candle
Remained an inordinate flame