We gathered all the Christmas trees,
those from our homes and from
when we went begging, dragging
all to the prairie, what we called a
corner vacant lot, in our Chicago
neighborhood. We piled them
up like a teepee. We sat inside
smoking cigarettes we had
picked (should I say purloined?)
judiciously (not to draw attention
from our father’s packs) of always
unfiltered Chesterfield’s and Lucky
Strikes. We were ever so lucky
the sparks didn’t strike.
* Written after reading The Second Life of Christmas Trees by Mark Perlberg
bobdahl 
I once placed a .22 cartridge in the crease of a tombstone and shot it with my BB gun lying in the same crease. As the casing blew back and creased my scalp, I thought, “This could kill me!”