untitled
Ali Ismail
In a tank there is most
often liquid.
The walls metal
the inside dark
and in fluid ounces suspended
from choice.
I hold my breath
in observance of the
propane tank
gagged with a nozzle and
yearning to explode.
If given the chance
it would kill you
at the next family cookout.
Out of hate? Not at all.
The propane didn’t know you
were out there
enjoying a saturday.
It simply grew curious.
After soaking in the dark
for so long
it wondered of a liquid
God.