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A bit of flesh lies upon the rooftop.

Neon lemon haz-mat bags, like a trick-or-treaters

            pillowcase blows nearly empty

            in the desert wind.  Tiny fragments

jingle hidden in the bottom.

The smoldering fiberglass ceased to smoke yesterday,

            making it safe for you be begin cleaning up.

            The smell of burning flesh no longer remains, but

            the scent of burnt plastic lingers.  Like the bottle

            rocket tipping over in your childhood, instantly melting

            the empty plastic twenty ounce Cheerwine bottle

into the Virginia crabgrass.  The burnt patch of

grass forever remains.