By Joe Virgillito
The school is on fire.
They say the kitchen greased over from lunch.
The janitor tossed his cigarette
and the whole damn thing was set ablaze.
The kids made it out just fine
but a teacher slipped and sprained her ankle –
now it’s red and a little boy is crying.
I took my car down that same school road,
its deadened leaves firmly blown and wishing upward,
never feeling alright in the street.
The Fire Bell rang out on 9th,
cutting into morning coffee
with two donuts left in
a heap of powdered sugar.