on top of the bridge
it smelled like
burning plastic.
garbage.
not quite
the viscosity of
burning tires.
at the base of the bridge
in a small cutaway
between two buildings,
two hooded men stood
huddled and blowing
smoke, staring, stupefied.
back on flat streets,
it became evident
that the smell was
that of wet wood,
burned in a fireplace
for heat.
the dark smoke
slid from chimney.
those who would
make monster
of others,
do so in attempt to
cloak their own
monstrosity.
it isn’t something to feel
shame over;
we are all made
at least partially
of monster.
some let their monster free
in the garden.
some keep their monster chained
in a windowless room.
given time,
given conditions
conducive to curing,
wet wood goes bone dry.
dark, thick, viscous
smoke, becomes
nothing
more than a whisper.
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