Flame Erasing

It is November 17th. The frost covered windows let in a dull gray light. Stanwix sits nude burning his divorce settlement papers in a pile on the floor.
Flame erasing the pages of court ordered love poetry one by one. There was little left to do but burn it, burn it all.
'Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown.' he mutters to himself
'All day long they waited for you. All you could do was whistle a sweet old country tune. Lord it smells like shit in here.'

He paces the floor for the better part of an hour.

The doorbell rings. It is the chicken man. He has got the daily fix. It's the good junk this time, and Stanwix knows it.

His conscious is clear as he finishes off the 10 piece bucket of extra crispy.