One morning in his neat little cottage

at seven thirty, his usual time,

he was contentedly brushing his teeth

up and down, the recommended way,

the recommended number of times,

when he smelt smoke.

 

He opened the window

and looked across his perfect little garden.

 

And saw

 

The jungle on fire, fierce crackling,

 

choking smoke drifting over rose beds

 

His cheeks glow with the heat

 

Appalled, he hears the rumble of a stampede of creatures,

feels his whole being vibrate as they burst from the trees,

smash his neat little privet hedge,

hurtle through the hydrangeas,

crash through the chrysanths,

and disappear

 

He feels their fear, and he feels it too,

the primitive fear of elemental force

The jungle is on fire

The jungle is on fire.

Run run run.

 

The shed, his beautifully kept, tidy shed

bursts into flames

 

Don't panic, he says to himself

and runs

in his nice blue striped jimjams

for the neatly coiled garden hose.

 

Barely able to breathe,

He sprays the cottage,

He sprays himself,

and sprays the cottage again.

Standing, surrounded by steam,

he thinks -

So it wasn't a dream.

I am

an arsonist