I'll tell you this,
it's Christmas Eve.
I'm laying on my bed smoking cigarettes
and from here you can hear the cold
raping all that is left of Autumn.
I have no electricity.
Towels stuffed under my bedroom doors.
I have 22 tea-light candles lit
that I managed to steal.
I have 22 candles lit for warmth.
A mild dent, if any at all.
For the most part, all is well and
even the most frigid air
can't hold a candle to that,
but I can.
Imagine that.
Raymond M. Strickland jr.
Dec.24,2002