From Where We're Born

The wood spits sparksas the barkcrumbles first into ashesout the furnace—the door open.Dad's on the couch gluedto the news.Not too sure he's worriedno hurryto keep the embers trapped—his attention sapped.The room's near hotthey've loaded the busand the Guard's in Texas.Dad turnsthe door openthe fire burns;no need to let wood rot.