An Accordian World

Let the house burn, burn to the ground.
Keep standing there,
holding the lighter and hollow gas can.

With full smirk slithering
up your face,
pushing potholes into sight.

“The house was a metaphor
for me,” you tell the man
more decorated than any of the walls
that once stood

in what is now a burning pile
of wasted, metaphorical rubble.

He stares with pupils
expanding like the universe
while your laugh
fills the cold, winter night
as if the world had collapsed
and created sounds like an accordian.