Blue

Blue smoke. False
like telling my dogs our walk
will end up in Canada
beside a crystal lake
when we’ll really pass
broken glass,
and overflowing
garbage cans.
Our out of the blue
heading into winter’s
east wind and loving
those leaf skitters
stuck in chain link.
The big articulated fan
of Arctic north flaps
frigid over us,
a terrier with a blue
coat that matches mine
and a survivor dog with fur
who sniffs the gray ash
of someone keeping warm
burning pick-up sticks.
I’m the only one who sees
the magician’s blue smoke
for what it is: artifice.