The Girl Who Played With Fire

Well, I drove the old pickup on over to Ford County,

On account of the girl who played with fire;

Stood there watching from under the dome

Of that crazy church they call the Alter of Eden.

That blaze was too big to fail,

the whole damn town was going rouge;

and I, Alex Cross, felt pretty fired up

at the sizzle and the smoke and the smolder.

Saw one of the firefighters arguing with idiots,

Who wouldn't move the Imperial Cruiser off the road;

All the while the joint smelled like someone had mastered

The art of french cooking -- if the french cooked roadkill

Buried deep in kimchee and deadman, and then dug up again.

I never did know what the dog saw

That caused him to run off like a pilgrim finding the lost symbol.

"Have a little faith," was what Janet Outliers whispered in my ear;

But I was off, after the dog, passing the unnoticed boys

Who lurked in the shadows, throwing stones into schools.

What is our true compass?

My happiness project has failed, there is no 4-hour work week.

Were I someone else, were I, sniper, a killer with a stone for a heart,

Who cared for nothing, not even about the honor of spies;

I could fire the last song into the crowd, and care not, like the girl,

Like the girl who played with fire.

But I am like you,

And U is for undertow,

Even as we all sink slowly down;

Drowning so slowly in pirate latitudes,

We barely notice

When our breath at last fails.

Note: I wrote this poem from a prompt using best seller titles.