smoke

a smokestack burns in the distance,

eye-level from the sixth floor:

a continuous belch into the clouds,

crowning the southern sprawl.

the city is a palette of grey, today;

the river a twisting worm,

tracing the slate of industry.

in the east the lake is sullen,

splashing at the seagulls, pinpoints on its glaucous sheen.

and the afternoon haze drifts absently

among the factories and apartments,

the rooftops and alleys,

muting the colors and the jagged lines.

and across the sky stretches the endless plume.

i watch it with half-interest:

the smokestack choking out huge puffs like feather pillows,

then the wind teasing them, pulling them apart,

until threads of smoke are drawn into the sky,

shifting and elongating, feeding on itself.