A boy dancing with smoke dancing with wind
by our backyard incinerator,
a boy so busy with catching that he has to dance:
in the yard green from the storage of rain
he is a light thing to be owner.
Our son is dancing with smoke tumbling on the grass
and he begs me to fire more cartons, to burn up
everything for the sake of this moment.
But I tell him so many things are to be counted
there is so much storage in everything. No, he cries,
keep the fire up, it is the smoke I am after.
There are tears in his eyes.
© Thomas W. Shapcott