Hauling possessions back
to those who lived, the driver
points out the building:
smutty stubby middle finger
still stabbing the Notting Hill sky,
a half-burned matchstick
proclaiming FUCK YOU
elites happy to swagger past gardens
thru lobbies with smiling staff
while their lesser neighbors
ease by bins,
rattle keys into dented metal doors,
ride up the swaying service elevator:
some residents more equal than others.
I rather wish they were not
picking it apart,
floor by damning floor,
Leave that charred body tied to its stake.
Leave it grim,
cheap cladding is more expensive than
one can bear;
that funds slashed for fire fighting
or for sprinklers BEFORE the fires must be fought
are not expenses.
They are the price of being human.