On the floor of a sea of smoke
crawling to an empty conch
I pass a woman out walking
her dog neither with a mask
and she smoking a cigarette.
And some bony lady jogging
thru the smoke and fog up
and down the local side
walks a serious jogger in
deed sans nuisance mask.
Toodeloo, I whistle in my
mask, in my car, windows
rolled, destooled, the bars
all closed, on my way to
the store for milk and beer.
Now a Worst World Air Award
for this smoke covered coast
an Atlantis sunk in smoke
a coal drenched London
an orange Tambora scarf.
The Coming of the Toads 