a bad bag of charcoal

i build

a small pyramid of charcoal

briquettes

in the small Weber Grill,

a wide metal pot

sitting on the iron

mesh table,

out back.

no lighter fluid necessary

the bag says.

so i light a match

and toss it in.

nothing happens.

another match, then another

match.

my steak awaits,

sitting on the white plate

beside the fork

and knife.

it's seasoned and salted.

there is no flame, nothing,

nada.

i grab some leaves and twigs

and toss them

into the grill.

i tear out some pages of a

book i'll never

read and throw

that in.

the fire builds, the wind blows

the ashes and smoke

around.

my eyes weep as i begin to cough.

then the fire

goes out.

the charcoal is still as cold

as stones

in a creek.

i break off part of my fence,

the trim

around the door and set that

on fire.

again the flames rise,

and the wood catches fire,

but then goes out.

i take of my shirt and pants

and set them in.

another match, more fire,

but then that too goes out.

i'm down to my underwear and socks.

the coals again are still black,

still cold.

i look at my phone

and call door dash.