Fires

There are ashes falling
from the sky.

The bees are nesting in the cracks
we couldn’t fill.

The sirens won’t stop
going off.

My dog won’t start
howling.

The spiders have built
homes in the fence.

I wonder if they’re in there.

How do you knock on a spider’s web?

You don’t.

Or.

Gently.

The helecopter’s doing circles
overhead.

That always sounds serious.

You should see how I spelled hele [i] copter
before I had a chance to check.

I guess it could technically still be right
until it isn’t.

The street gets quiet for no one.

7 Eleven is the city that
never sleeps.

Sometimes a wine glass breaks
into only a handful of pieces so
it doesn’t have to be dramatic.

A poem
makes everything sound dramatic.

He tells me, “Miss, your husband is a dick.”

I don’t have a husband.

So half of that statement sounds like wishful thinking.

It is darker than it should be at this hour.

I guess the fires are still burning
and making all of our sunsets more noteworthy.

Fire
is always dramatic.

Always trying to outdo the sun.