Fire and plague

Today my room smells like burnt eucalyptus 
I don’t know where the fire is, but close
Nitre, or the surreptitious burning off
In a forty gallon drum, fireworks or garden scraps
I cannot tell which
A tricycle from the ashes like a saint 
The rubber wheels and handle grips
Gone to char and treacle
Flames dripping with that jet propulsion whine
Or, perhaps – perhaps, all this has remained
For the worst part of a year, the scent
Of static ringing in my ears
The distant immolation of Vicks vapour rub
Rubbed carefully in cloth, to clear the sinuses
Left to shawl across a crooked tap
As the old wives said, vinegar, petroleum and heat
Against the ghost like shapes
Of our slowly cast adrift miasmas 

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