the aroma of smoke and tear gas

wafts through the chill evening

the whup-whup-whup of helicopters

chops the air into bite-sized bits

sirens play the melody while marketa

and i talk about what it means

to be figments of someone's imagination

the world may be burning around us

but   if we don't exist   how it is 

that we can detect odors  i'll have to ask 

colin's grandfather the next time we see him   

if the lot of us aren't deleted   or left

to languish   by our creator   meanwhile   

real or imagined   the world burns