Saturday, June 17, 2017

Christopher Hopkins wtites

Fire on the corner of 13th and 3rd

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.

Image result for night launch canaveral kennedy

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