A Poem About the Eaton Fire

I drive to work under the shadows of mountains

Their ancient flesh flayed to cinders by corporate greed

And my mind flashes to the crushed carapaces of homes below.

My hands tighten on the wheel, remembering

The feel of suds and ash on my skin, as I rinsed my car clean of incinerated memories 

that once belonged to strangers, to neighbors.

(The water was black. I didn't know how to dispose of it. I couldn't wash my hands of it.) 

I am passed on the right by an Amazon truck plastered in an ad. It reads “Warning: Contents may cause happiness.”

(I was lucky to have a car to clean.)