Smoke and Ash

A great cloud billowed through a hundred degrees
over the tops of the dry shrub mountains
round like moles of the earth,
but instead of rain, ashes.
Ashes fell on the plastic manicured dolls
doe-like observing from the front yards
of plastic houses new
as planes resting on shelves over an impossibly deep crevice,
to take off and never land, but fall
forever.  Ashes fell,
and stained upturned blue eyes grey,
and covered the mint green lawns,
and covered the sports cars
and the cosmetic shops
and hid the awnings even
as the owners feverishly pitched more
so that nothing could be seen
     that was made beautiful.
We are the people,
        and I am the cloud.