If I Were a Poet

There was an orange bucket.
And the smell of tar.
I couldn’t run.
The orange bucket was shining, giving off so much light
that the light felt like waves drowning me.
Drowning me in a flood of tar.
The sun was setting,
and the shadows growing long.
I had two shadows; one from the sun, and one from the bucket.
One shadow was growing stronger, the other weaker.
Soon, if I didn’t get out of there somehow,
I would be left with only one shadow
traced in orange.
I knew that when that happened,
my life would never be the same.
Only minutes remained
until all would be dark and night oozing around our house
like tar,
and as I drew my final breath,
I would see above and all around,
a hot, pulsing, orange light.