Prospects

by Donald Baker

 

“It’s gone out”  she said

Wistfully, strayed a look his direction

 

His thick thumb flicked again and again

Futility

“Not getting a spark” He snapped

 

She dismissed him

“Maybe someone else can”

Turned from the opulent table

looked at the whisper of sunset on lake

finely rippled glass, rose to the distant shadowed tree-line.

“So beautiful” She breathed

 

“I can get them to bring another.”

He gave up.

Slapped the lighter down.

 

She reflected on the end of day,

and thought of the children

 

He stared at rough, war torn hands,

and thought of work

 

The wax of the lifeless candle cooled and hardened.