Christopher Hopkins wtites

Fire on the corner of 13^th and 3^rd

The building had gone up good. 

Like a timber frame. 

The tangerine lashes

through the window panes, 

rubbing black palms 

all over the brick. 

A stretch of chrome ladders 

batting it back;  

the shouts and cracks 

and the sirens calling.

And the people came 

and stood and stared. 

Necks all cricked up, 

and the unwinking shark eye 

of a T.V. lens.

The spectacle of it all in black and white.

As if watching the grace of Cape Canaveral, 

this upended Saturn five, 

penthouse corner of thirteenth, 

just this crowd in their pjs and winter coats, 

the buildings Florida heat, 

the firemen in their life supports 

and the astronauts' wives waiting at home 

for their husbands to end their shifts.

In the pale of morning 

smoke still billowing, 

skeletons of yesterday's living 

all on show through holes 

fisted flames had torn. 

Remnants of dining rooms, 

half cooked sofas, 

burned up spines of light reading, 

now moon dust on the wind.

The crowd had moved on, 

along with raving lights 

of the red fire trucks, 

and black eye,  

scouting for more misfortune.