Musings
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This poem was first published in June 17, 2004, in the editorial section of the Daily News.
Seven Alarm Slumber
The pastry chef was on that night, working at the Dog. Barking at clientele whose excitement rose through the smoke, and fear and awe. She called 911.
Across the way, the red engines roared, already headed toward the smoking, flame-leapt silo. Water poured.
The mayor was called out of slumber to attend, inform and succor. The event was huge; seven alarms called. Men in their black boots, yellow striped jackets and hats raced in orderly scramble, like scores of hornets descending, dousing, searching, relieving. Roused from drifty, all occupants fled to the street, not a human scorched.
In the mid of night, there sat a lone woman on a bench nearby; with cat in its carrier. She was asked; she replied, "Yes, I'm fine, I have a place to stay. But I'm afraid several of the cats didn't make it."Going back to his post across the street from the flames, the mayor stood, the auctioneer stood, the firemen ran the drill.
The heat, barely noticeable at street level, rose.
A silo of combustion, balloon construction, fed itself through the night. The back of the building was wrapped in metal corrugation. It contained the heat, pushing it upwards.
Flames leaping, water drenching and flowing, seeking its own level.
As the river falls, cutting through town, full from a heavy rain, water poured. The entrance of the greenery became its own fall. Two stories up, flames leaped 20 feet, dancing on the roof. Two storefronts remained intact.
As another, his dreams to live his dream as his own boss, quit the day job. The body inside went up in smoke.
By two am, the mayor headed home, his car entrapped by water hoses. He walked home in the pouring rain; thunder and lightning grabbed the sky and him by the collar. Growling at the storm, a walking target for the charge overhead, he realized 'this is it.'
Continued on tired, going home.
By daylight, streets were blocked with detoured traffic. The cranes already demolished the backend. Large sheets of lath strip and plaster still intact. The storefronts, like a movie set, brick in place, still standing. In defiance, three vine woven spheres hung from the doorway, unscathed.
Cordoned off, at the rear of the building, demolition continued in the smolder. Sawhorses blocked passage. Despite all, the large brown delivery truck rumbled up, attempted to back into the lot. Behind him, little blue hair honks her horn, not moving, standing her ground shakes her head, unheard. The truck cannot see her. He cannot move through the horses. She honked louder. He cannot move forward. She honked louder and louder. Slowly he backs up, she inches begrudgingly backwards. And there is the man in blue, directing traffic. The tan man steps out of his truck with a long box, determined to make his delivery when he recognizes the greenery is singed.
Cats gone missing. It's another day of demolition, inquiry and determination. Probable wire shortage the newsman said. There is no hope of life. Mattresses, sinks and broken structures strewn. Yet, as the big cats grabbed and moved the rubble, something darted out, raced across the debris, catching her ninth life. All motor activity stopped, screeched to a halt. Sought and found, brought to safety in the sunlight; she preened. No dogs in chase nor barking that day. The cleanup continues, lifting the remains of stench, soaked from scorching water left in char.
Rising from the ash are displacement and change.
Epilogue:
After deconstruction, it's been a year, the site remains
Rubble amongst the rumble, a brick façade retains
A sense of unity in town, despite the vote and taxes.
The death of business, one relocated, up on a back lot
People in their homes displaced, still looking for a grey cat.
Where did they go? Boarded up, it's hollow
Winter's vessel for snow and cold.
Who is to say what is to come?
In early Spring, a banner floats
Declaring an auction at site: the dirt and brick and plot.
On that designated day, through the haze of late morning sun,
More than a dozen eagers, in Panama's and sleeveless, showed up.
The Irish lads were selling the stuff.
Who won? Who sold, how much?
Cannot say for certain
But Word on the Street,
'It went for a lot.'
