ManicDDaily

New York Nonplussed Minutes

I am feeling, I confess, low–
when sirens squeal
conspicuously close, just below,
in fact, my window, and firemen rush
into my building, strides big=booted, black
backs horizoned
by yellow tape, and, as more sirens squeal/sigh
near, more firemen follow
(fore-armed with
folds of hose), and

my spirits, dear reader, somehow
lift, particularly as I look down to other
tenants not-scurrying through the self-
same doors, but simply side-
stepping boot-cuffs, trucks, some
walking dogs.

But being not nearly as irresponsible as
you might assume, you who may not
know the hard smushed bite of this big
Apple, I peer down
the smokeless desolation
of my hall, sniff what might be the slightest halo
of burned rubber or simply
my baking yams, watch,
with increasing cheer, firemen
drifting back into the night, lugging unsullied
hook, hose, sled, as other other-tenants, with
dogs and without, continue
to filter past, till I go poke, at last,
those potatoes, testing
for sweetness.

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Yes, I’m trying to scribble a November novel, but last night major non-fire seemed to happen in my building.  No noticeable smoke or flames but tons of terrific firemen and three or four trucks.  I am linking this to With Real Toads, Kerry O’Connor’s challenge re addressing the reader.