None of my favorite authors are out here tonight.
Familiar smoke twirling above a dying fire.
All too well. Similar to the places they dwelled.
Lobster bisque. Didn’t clean a dish.
Ash tray brimming.

Two wet logs laid side by side
in a fire-ring of heavy white rock.
Mortared brick mantle caked by fire dust.
Half eaten tomato sausage biscuit.
Made from scratch.
Flour printed pen on butter dusted paper.

Scratching. Dragging wagging lines and loose dotted I’s
and night light spotted eyes. Retracted back.
Glimmered green.

Is that them?
My imaginary collective of favorite authors.
Not out there. Not here.

I have no favorite authors.
I keep no living heroes.

All I have are peers.