His favorite answer to

“Please, what time do you have?”

"I don’t."

Wednesday,  10  3. 10

he firebombed a borough

to light his cigarette

and walked smoking

among the hot sheen of the erupted streets

he walked smoking

straddling the centerlines

that plumbed their now-fiery walls

a masked moon peered

at the rustcoloured troughs of flame and coarse black smoke

it watched the tarmac bead into tears and choke the irongrate sewers

that exhaled clonic spasms

and drooled spit bubbles and groaned

one house would not do

all the belongings belonged to the dancing fire

he lit cigarettes from one

and then another

early September, 2011