The shards of glass in the dirt are cool and smooth.
The sharp edges dig at the soles of her bare feet,
But they cannot penetrate the thick, calloused skin
The fiery rays lick at the burnt remains of the abandoned houses
The air is smoky, but not the good kind
The kind like acid, that burns her nose

Step by step, she glides like a ghost through the rubble
Cars twisted like wires around telephone poles
Skyscrapers flat on the ground, she climbs over them
Airplanes smashed deep into craters, not to be discovered
The morning light is harsh, yet the shadows hold no depth
No story left behind

She hears no one
How a wailing mother or yelling father or screaming baby would comfort
She knows not
No dog picks through the scraps
Only one lies dead at her feet, His collar says Buster
His golden fur is covered with dirt and ash
She considers sweeping it off, but decides to move on

Wind whips at her face
It blows her gossamer, tattered dress in all directions
And lifts her greasy hair off her neck
She tries to take shelter, but it blows from all directions

Could this really be it?
Is he not out there somewhere
Will she never again be consoled by the velvet touch of his hands on her shoulders
Or his steady whisper that everything will be alright
Gone with all the others, one out of many

This is not a dream.