A phone call stirs your smoky sleep,
Reminds you that the candle’s brief.
A friend admits he pinched his wick:
The thumb is burnt, but flame is thick.
You thank the Chandler for His work.
You thank your friend for calling up.
You cup your hands throughout the night,
The morning passes by your side,
You walk about two-digit miles,
You charge the phone not once, but twice,
And yet, you barely even know
How long the tallow runs below.
You fix it to a corner shelf.
You wonder if at all you’ve helped.