First Frost - Chris Dungey

A plain stick match

scratches its sulfur contrail

across the iron griddle

of an enameled wood-stove. But right—

this comes much later. A first frost

will have settled, translucent

upon the goblin tee-peed windshields,

heaped foliage, the cornucopia

of spoiled gours and tubers piled

out back for deer bait. Nipples

must have first scratched across

a reclining abdomen. You know—repeatedly.

Well, then it’s a matter of electrolytes and carbs

in, proteins out—sort of like smoke

rising up that chimney. Then

everyone, aging dachshund

on the couch included,

will whimper in sleep.

Originally published in Spire, Fall, 2003

Chris Dungey is a retired auto worker in Michigan. He rides mountain bike, hikes, lifts, spends too much time in Starbucks. He follows Detroit City FC and Flint City Bucks FC (in person) with religious fervor. More than 165 of his poems have found publication in lit-mags and online. Most recently in Dipity, 12 Mile Review, Brown Bag Online; and forthcoming in Cypress Review.