A Drone Scans the Wreckage - Margaret Atwood

Smoke gets in my eyes,

my fifteen eyes.

Glass insulation smolders.

Pink tongues get stuck on it.                                      

Charred cotton candy.

Did I do that?

Palm tree shorn of its head.

Cathedral ceilings, opened up

to the stars, to the stark.

What did they worship in there?

The overhead fans?

The bolsters? The naked bedspread?

I spy.

They cried O God to the pillows.

Now ripped and fluttering,

angel feathers.

These hover, slower than me.

See raw finger paint. Red.

Wet still crawling.

Must have missed something.

Better home in again.

Do some stuttering.

Attapat. Attatat. Attasis. Attaboom.

Accurate this time. Rah.

Anything saved equals failure.

Was I bad?

Teardrops fall and fall.

The rain shower's broken.