So blue the ember fire
torched the smoky wired liar
in fumes they enveloped their faces
him a coughing cigarette mechanism
like lace entangled in his gray lungs
forever blackened by cloudy days
of smoke and ash trays
Lying around the yellow overgrown grass
while he fished for bass in a kiddie pool
a kid’s fantasy place
His kid’s burnt bodies buried
beneath the already battered bay of
beanpoles and broken keys.
Not a whisper. Not a murmur of solace for their
charcoal-finger painted skin.
Only the wind of the times
circling like vultures upon its carrion
whipping up their leafy wings
to soar down and sweep
the life up to wherever children
lie after they die.
He sits and chokes and chokes and sits
rolling them around with his tongue.