Richmond Tire Fire

[Richmond Tire Fire]

From the long, sleepy corridor of Belvidere,
I look out and see a grey-black basilisk
roiling into the sky, traversing its sooty form
from west to east, an ever-rejuvenating bulk.

The light is shrouded around me.
Few eyes follow the adder’s path.
I pull over, throw on my bag
and grip a bottle of water.

Drivers on Leigh appear not to notice
anything more than their automated maps
broadcasting from phones clasped by claw-like fingers.
They pass in gleaming cars with expressions confused —
as curious about my attention as I am of their lack.
(Are they blind?)

More and more, people trod toward the Leviathan’s origin —
entranced — its mouth affixed to a turquoise building,
tongue flashing so fast it looks like one
continuous mess of flickering, airborne lava.

Men in caps run about its maw
seen only as silhouettes dragging
along a lengthy canvas worm
(their best defense).

We sit on a graffiti-adorned retaining wall.
Highway travelers slow but only one has stopped.
(Some must go. Some must watch.)
We make eye and verbal contact.
We capture the scene with mobile device and mind.

They snake deflates.
The crowd peaceful near the barking
backyard dog who scolds our stupidity.
We are the dumbest creatures on the planet.
We trickle and fade and forget
after a mere moment’s passing.

The hazard lights glow against adjacent buildings
in the distance, a veritable rainbow shown in the cast
of man-directed water to combat the mistakes
made by man-directed madness
of cinderblock and rubber turned to cinder and fume.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Dusk to dusk.
We pace about at breakneck speeds,
only to sputter, dim, and die again —
taking all the naysayers along with us.

Ad astra per alas porci.
The viper puffs into an hombre cloud.
A single beam of light takes shape in its fog,
roving in sanguine supervision but seeing nothing.

[02/18/2020]