I open the grey matchbook and select a match at random, From the front row. I tear it from the pack and it resists; But I twist and it comes free. As I close the cover I notice the wound I made, And it seems for a moment that the other matches Are closing in to cover it; But then they are hidden and I forget. I turn the matchbook to the abrasive side, And raise my hand to strike. The match grates against the black sandy strip. Many matches have been struck here before And the strip is well-worn; but still there is a spark And a hiss and the match sputters to life -- Reluctantly at first, but then with great vitality. I bring its flame near to the end of my cigarette, And so intensely does it burn that the two needn't touch. The match's heat is conveyed to the cigarette, Which sighs as it comes to life, and I draw the match away. I look at it through the haze of new smoke, Not wanting to shake the flame away, But rather to see how far the flame will go -- A game to pass the time. I watch with interest as the flame journeys down the match and slowly dwindles. As it nears my fingers it grows smaller And smaller still until at last with a puff of smoke Like a spirit released, it is gone. I take a drag on my cigarette and reach for the ashtray. I drop the burnt remains of the match, and it falls, Turning end over end, and landing at last in the tray To be covered by the ashes of its predecessors. And soon the cigarette is smoked down to the filter and, Without looking up from my work, I crush it out in the ashtray neither knowing, Nor caring that an ember has fallen upon the match I used to light it. Briefly, silent and unnoticed, The match begins to glow warmly from its contact with the ember. A split second later, the ember and the match die together, And the smoke of their passing drifts upward and stings my eye, Causing a single tear to drop from my cheek Onto the grey matchbook. -Rob Allen, April 1987
Reason for writing:
I'm afraid the history, in this case, is rather uninteresting.
I was at my first official full-time job, still in college,
way back when one could still smoke at one's desk. It was
lunch time and I was bored. I'd been writing poetry on and off
for a few weeks, just for the hell of it. I decided to write
a poem, but had no idea what I should write it about. I
finished my sandwich, took out a cigarette, and lit it. I
looked at the matches I had used to light my cigarette, and
the Muse hit me on the head.
That was in 1987. I've since read and revised it several times.
It is currently one of the poems I am most proud of having
written -- and the only one that still gives me a twinge of
emotion, though I'm not really sure why that is.
Birth sign: Not entered
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