National Poetry Month 2011, Day #14: Sparky

The devil is in the details.

The secret was that snarky smile;
it didn't say danger as we know it.
You were less hellfire,
more sandbox.

The pajamas were a red herring, too,
because you're really not that comfortable
in your own skin.
You're just rousing rivalry
to make room in the bed
for your own demons
to lay to rest.

Your golden egg
marooned you.
You had no other choice.
We understand now.

When the gladiators
speak to you,
answer them with the half-life
of cloned imagination.

Their seance of choreography
is a Broadway musical
if you possess them so.
Their clumsy dance strikes stones
to spark the first flame,
the one still smoldering beneath the surface,
ready to defy gravity
at the siren song of abrasion.

Cool their fires
with a long day in the sun.
It's only a little ironic.
They pray for happily ever afters
as much as anyone,
as much as you, beckoning,
"Remember me."

Your heart is on someone else's sleeve
when you've done your job properly,
because the greatest trick the devil can pull
isn't convincing everyone he doesn't exist.

It's convincing everyone
he's somebody else.