Smoke happens on the street’s fires,
Near boss trees who shed their love
In leaves, scooped up by old women
For money to keep stomachs going.
The old women shall turn smoke too
When the stomachs will stop going.
Then they will go in the black clouds
And rain down on the grandchildren.
Grandchildren will point their fingers
At dark clouds looking for lost bears.
They forget to recognize grandmas
In between so many clouds of smoke.