Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

My first prompt driven poem in at least 2 years. The prompt was, "Someone's house is burning." I'm still sorting through the line breaks, they seem awkward long, and perhaps even more awkward as they are now, in short snippets.

Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

From up here I can see

the entire west side of the city,

a great cross hatched web

of black asphalt, interrupted

with rows of green trees

and dark rooftops.

In the distance,

deep inside the grid,

a house burns.

Even nine stories up,

I can hear the sirens.

Can almost smell the

plastic melting,

paint bubbling,

the carpets that hiss

as they burn like

ribbons of tissue paper.

Smoke rises in the distance,

curls between the trees

like a hand that reaches up

to touch the sky.

On the sidewalk below,

a man with a single crutch

pushes a shopping cart

full of bottles and cans.

Wheels rattle over cracks

in the concrete. Plastic

and aluminum rubble as

they bounce. Everything

is the same, in tact.