Under an old coaling tower
by track scars in Bartlesville
we drink flame, dance
out the last drop, then spit
into a dirt circle.
Nothing happens—too glossed
to see any ghosts we bring,
but we laugh all the same,
that laugh you find in the meal
after a funeral.
Shroom says this tower never
got used. I ask What do you call this?
From a street away—
firecrackers and screaming
kids slap the night sky.