dust storm

i get caught in the cross fire. My mouth already foaming, i roam the streets sniffing leftovers, searching for a place to bury old bones. Theres nothing left to pick. Select cuts already sliced and diced and thrown it to the stew. I try to simmer. Maintain a slow bubble. Avoid the burn outs and black pots and steel wool scrubbings that leave fingers raw. The steady hiss of the pressure cooker is comforting. It reminds me of everything forgotten and warm.