Incinerator

It’s never a clean break, just a smudge.

I’m poking the pile with a greasy slat

from a broken crate,

trying to get the flame to bite

the interest rate on page four.

The paper resists, then turns to ink,

curling back into a blackened claw.

My knuckles are covered in soot

and the alley smells like a wet dog

having a bad dream.