Ben Fowlkes

Smoke

Late summer and we are engulfed. Put your head inside
the black half-moon of an old charcoal grill 
and breathe deeply. You’ll know what I mean.

The sun trudges weakly across the sky like an old man
with a dying lantern searching for lost dogs.
A week of this, then two. It gets to all

of us. This gray film on everything even the stuff
you can’t ever see. You walk the dog and your
lungs send up a question: We’re sure this is a good idea?

Yesterday my neighbor saw me
taking out the trash and jerked his thumb in the air
like, you believe this shit? He’s lived here 

all his life he says. Third-generation Montanan. Never seen it
this bad. He’s got pure white hair and a kind face and

many nights with the windows open I hear him raging
at the grandkids who’ve ended up living with him
against his will. Maybe it really is global warming, he says.

Or climate change, he says, whatever they’re calling it now.
Course, he says, maybe it’s also just bad luck. He knows
that can happen too. It’s one of those things they always

forget to tell you when they’re trying so very hard to get you 
to think about what you’re doing in your life.