WHAT I MISS FROM THE PAST

is smoke. When it was time
to burn trash Saturday
my brother and I dragged
sawed-off old cartons from
washing machines, dryers,
we kept in the basement
and filled all week with trash.
Before anyone knew
it was the dawning of
Aquarius, the dawn
of the Age of Plastics
arrived, and we burned that
fast as we could, filling
the world with dioxin
years before Uncle Sam
discovered how deadly
it could be and called it
Parquat. The aerosol
cans we loved! Burn ‘em and
Blam! Blam! Blam! and we’d duck
from flying metal strips,
red-hot, whirring past eyes
invulnerable, shot
through with a faith in God,
Chevrolets, apple pie,
and who knows what other
silly stuff. A car crash
killed my brother before
they got a chance to kill
him in Viet Nam. I
loved to smell evening smoke,
visiting our little
town. This was good smoke, smoke
from the burn barrels out
back in dark dirt alleys,
smoke from paper burning,
maybe bits of garbage.
And in the Fall, leaves burned
on lawns all over town
just after the Good War,
when everything we did
was the right thing, somehow.