Prometheus’ Delirium

When the sky started leaking gray silk,
I spotted him at the gate
In his old denim jacket stained with machine oil,
Staring down at his rubber boots.
I let him into the kitchen,
My coffee-scented haven.

He shakes his head, and I hear
Broken glass jingle inside it.
He tells me about the crow that comes
To him every night, pecks his liver,
Runs her steel beak against his ribs,
And flies away, leaving feathers
On the blood-stained pillow.

He’s grown to love that crow,
His only predictable guest.
Nobody on earth wants the fire
He brings in his hands from Olympus.

“Your cleanliness makes me sick,”
He mutters, dumping his coffee into the sink.