How many times has there been a fire and not a drop to put it out?

Black plastic used in gardens to warm seeds, cover and carry garbage and on the corner of Comel and Willow it dries up memories of sweltering summers. The tape that binds the familiar, leaves a limbless stump, requires a pause when walking past for the mind to identify the possibilities . With each encounter imagine what the hydrant could have turned into now that it can’t be relied on. Is it such an eyesore to have a non-functioning object on the corner that it must be rendered nearly formless. Who did this? Could it have been a forlorn flame? A spurned lick of heat left with nothing to quench its thirst.

Inside
Each time the pilot provided the spark the blue beau would bellow, flinch and burn.

Outside 

There were promises made by the mass that had to be covered, hidden…everything ends sometime. 

This wanton shroud shields the volatile ardor that lies in wait just beyond the panes.