Crowded inside the ugliness of an ugly job — like, for instance, the gutting of a chapel’s pipe organ, your head dandruffed with the dust old walls once hid, your hands coarse and dry as the ropes; or shoving crusted steel baskets of bloody chicken wings in and out of angry grease while your shoes grab and slide in ankle-deep sludge that works its way inside your socks and solidifies, intrusive as government, under your toenails — it’s understandable, this longing for fresh air. But the ugliness stays in your mind as you step outside and stare at this dumpster, its recyclables lumped in with garbage and carcasses, to be sent by workers to landfills in truckloads. What are tar and nicotine now? Sometimes a cigarette tastes like kerosene. I am putting a torch to a mansion.