A Fear of Fire
Oct 8 2008


All his life
he had a fear of fire.
Ladders in every room,
escape plans.
And galvanized buckets of water
he faithfully kept filled.

Perhaps he was scarred as a child.
His eyes, transfixed by fire,
pulled
too close to the hearth.

Or a house ablaze,
the hellish screams, the burning bodies.
And the stench
of the charred blackened remains,
still smoking the morning after.

Or a forest, going-up in flames —
tinder dry,
lighting-up the night,
bearing down as loud as a freight train.
Leaving him slack-jawed
gobsmacked,
consuming all in its path, no stragglers.



So we weren’t surprised when he died in his sleep,
as he always hoped he would.
An old man as deaf as a door-stop,
who couldn’t hear
when the alarm went-off
— overcome by smoke.