in every direction. Picking up
debris, circling as the bees. And
dropped off like a kid
at school. The doors close

behind her. She looks out
the window. Sees things flying by her –
not the blue Jay or the Robin. Not the
leaves. It’s not autumn. Just dust and

particles. An old article she read
as the sky turned red, as this city
burned. Once her heart yearned to
break out the doors. But the bell

doesn’t ring. Life’s billowing
smoke that dissipates
in the air. She can smell it, but can’t
see it. The fires not lit in her

chimney. It stands cold as the slabs
of stone. She hears the wind wrestling
as she buries herself in the blankets. Life’s
a famine/not a banquet. The wind howls

the fitful night as a rat a tat
tat on the pane. Another day
down the drain.