Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's
I stand by the window looking out at the street
at the red flashing lights; at the couple next door;
at the men with the giant black boots on their feet.
I stand by the window and I try to ignore
how I hack and I cough and I choke
it's only a moment, it's only for now,
how under the door, in creeps the smoke.
And standing there looking, I try to endow
my own sense of courage and hope
while my body trembles
and I struggle to cope
and around me my home burns to shambles.
The smoke boils in through the crack
beneath the door, into my throat
and the heat licks burns on my back.
Outside from the hall comes a harsh note
of wooden doors bowing, then torn
into splinters. The fire consumes
like a man so needy and utterly forlorn
he uses and uses and his loneliness exhumes.
Then from up overhead, a loud crush of thunder,
of arches, supports, of drywall sent under.
It scares me so much that before I know
it, I've broken the glass and leapt through the window.
Into my feet bite the fire escape stairs
while a heavy rain my vision impairs
and I hurry down, scared; to create a diversion
trying to think of my last real excursion
into the world, and out of the apartment,
until I'm safely in care of the fire department
and while my home burns down to charcoal
I catch a glimpse of two badges that sparkle
reflecting the flames of insatiable evil
like fingers or tongues -- perhaps even labial
but I just can't care as they claim their own
the only home I have ever known.
to be continued!
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