He sits on the granite stair, and sparks matches,
With a devious awareness of the brittle scrub,
And the carrying ease of the wind.
With a brief, yet tender cultivation,
Cupped against the gust,
He is Prometheus,
In ripped jeans.

The failed attempts discarded at his side.

Each scratch reminds,
With a faint smile,
Of the fabled bar trick:
10p and a matchbook,
An impossible proposal,
And the victorious solution.
The heads fuse in the flare,
Bent together like the elderly figures on the warning signs.

Rapturous applause from the leafy tree hands,
Stirred by the breeze.
To you,
Those trees are audience-methadone,

They suffice for now.