Trash Burning

Trash Burning

When I was eight
I played in the fire.
Stirred up melting milk jugs
and crushed tin cans.
Twisted a charred stick
in oozing plastic,
held it up trailing flames
like the Red Baron
dripping fire bombs
on paper plate villages.
Smoke twisted away
from curling edges of pages,
crisp sheets lifting free
from rusty barrel,
drifting overhead
to fields of black leaves.
I chased it down
and stomped on it.
Guilty glanced
toward all-seeing house.
No eyes met mine
at the kitchen window.