Blown Off

Hands flutter at smoke.
A row of poplars clap their leaves
between highway and home.
Eyes slam shut.
Backs turn and recede.

Somewhere,
people are hoarding stamps,
spoons, shot-glasses,
and slipping comic-books
into acid-free sleeves.

Everywhere,
bonds drift and dissipate
like scents on a breeze,
wafting then gone,
fanned off like puffs of dandelion.