The middle tiki torch is older than the ones that flank it on the left and the right. Yes, it’s center-stage. Its wick is frayed and its oil tank, hidden by the weaved braid of its tiki-leaf container, is probably empty.
A lizard, black-brown and speckled, is clamped motionless, head toward the ground, tail toward the sky, on the container’s cylindrical holster. Its toes are splayed and countable.
From the cylinder’s base the support reeds reach downward in a symmetrical, circular pattern.
About eight inches down they complete a funnel-shape and combine into one cracked but unified pole.
The material is bamboo, but it’s all lost its golden, shiny luster. Each strand of the once gleaming and smooth material has been bleached, soaked, dried, burnt, soaked again, bleached, burnt and dried by the tropical, Florida days.
Another glance at the worn wick, and the lizard is gone. What once was ready to set the night ablaze now resembles a tribal headdress of a chief who was long ago dethroned.