Smoke Signals

A Poem for Aaron Bushnell

Wrinkles in my clothes,
frizz in my hair-
some things meant to bother me
I really just don’t care.

When I try to make the bed,
it never looks quite right.
The blankets are crooked,
and the sheets are not tight.

The buildings that I paint
always come out distorted.
All the furniture inside them
strewn about, unsorted.

Somehow I see structure
as a compromise in freedom.
Wherever imperfect ghosts wander,
I will be there to meet them.

As the sky caves in around us,
it feels futile to tinker
with our trinkets and fuss
about such things inconsequential.

Smoke is rising from the tower.
Sitting in lawn chairs, we bare witness,
while plumes grow thicker by the hour.
Our lungs fill with it, yet we are still.

One lone soldier douses himself,
setting aflame a world of shame.
All the tragedy collecting dust on the shelf,
combusting for all eyes to see.

Pleads may fall on deaf ears,
though the screams of the dying
are something everyone hears.
For we love life–even as we perish.