After the Big Storm

People walk on tip-toes
after the electrical storm enveloped this city
built on volcanoes
in rose-colored smoke.

A man who’s not from the city
climbs a high concrete spire
and stands with rounded shoulders,
watching the entrance road –

No lights, no cars,
no one sane
seeks entry.
Only old skyscrapers breathe
this kind of toxic air.
Their bony fingers reach through the dust;
claw the sky’s eyes.

Sometimes he tells
the lookie loos
that he’s searching for his lost dog,
sometimes, his wife,
sometimes,
his lost life.