sipping a cappuccino in the village

That candleholder used to be purple, I think,
with a translucent mist over its walls,
but the bottom is brown
and the flame whistled at me
before bursting into a bright passionate cry.
I mistook it for delight
until it coughed, sputtered,
and vanished
in a pool of waxen tears.

Without fire, it can’t remember
its purpose. Although it searches
the dim table, it is not satisfied
with empty sugar packets piled high,
Bon Jovi crooning in its ear,
and chocolate swirls digging into foam.

It longs for the days of Charlie Parker,
everyone gathered in Minton’s
listening to sounds riskier
than unprotected orgies of a thousand people
exploring together,
growing up to be legends
together.
But purple-brown-wax-covered-fire-cup
is alone.

It wants to bleed
but it is afraid to increase
the stains of age, all
hidden by mundane guitar riffs,
sung by a novice guitar.

If it could rekindle itself with chocolate
before all liquid is sucked away
and the wax dries,
maybe it could find its drumbeat
and repaint its roots.