Ice Storm

The ice storm is passing    
carving its edge toward fresh land    
and lives to the east.    
At Newton’s there are broken limbs    
and scrap-piles in the yard.    
In the freezing night and shirtless    
he stands over a flaming barrel    
burning the residue and trash:    
chore, glass stems, baggie ends    
black spoons…    
the receipts of a past    
written in the smoke of burning ice.    
He has a hearing in the morning,    
but says he would have quit    
just the same.    
I watch, silent in the van,    
the worse-off of the two.    
My throat is still a wreck    
from smoking money.