The sky was on fire
from the street lights below. The ashes
fell from the clouds of smoke
drifting in from the mountains
where forests waved to
us with fingers of raging flames,
choking out the view
of the great symbol
of the American Dream,
hiding like a dysfunctional family
of letters, up there
on the Hollywood Hills.
This was the most peace I had all day;
watching LA County silently burning to the ground.
All I could actually hear was a soundtrack
of crickets singing to the cockroaches
on the midnight side-walks.
The wife sound
asleep, pissed off at me because I was
still dealing with our dirty laundry.
She told me earlier it was too late,
that I would wake up
the entire apartment
complex.
I went downstairs, I looked in,
it was still going at it;
my clothes wrestling with hers
for a space to breathe.
Back upstairs, away from the noise,
I looked out of my window to a conflict
of light. I looked up to the stars.
I saw none.
So, I turned on the TV instead, watched
a late night talk show.
[RK Wallace]
qmunicatemagazine.com 