trash fire

worlds come and go like tiny flakes of ash
in a light breeze we pass clenching our eyes
not daring to look upward to the skies
until past the small fire we've made our dash
holding our noses against burning trash
above our heads the loud avian spies
cry out against all poets and their lies
the reality is we all pay cash
for every increment of love or hope
we know the price and know it is not fair
yet in the morning we smile at the light
depend on prospects and you are a dope
not fit to breathe the ordinary air
and that's a measure of the normal plight