the relic

Atop the five-story firepole sat a fireman

in a puddle

of his own flab,

moustaches flowing

like tarnished silver

entrails spilling along his gut


the brass buttons that creaked

under his strain.

This old fireman

filled his post,


He was sworn

to sit and warn

the children who feverish

streamed past

that the firepole was


(it was just for show),

a dubious device

from a frightening past,

this firepole,

rusted from being

often forgotten

and bent from seeing

one too many mock it.

The young,

the Youth!

they wanted to ride!

because the aim of life

they knew (but would soon forget)

wasn’t to survive.

they didn’t mind

how rough or how frightening

as long as they gave it a go

as long as they tried.

but the fireman lounging would blow

a whistle,

hoist a meaty hand,

and mounting all his heft and humor

would devilishly command:

Ho!  Halt there, stand back my son!

Have pride in the relic, yes.

But you must never, ever have fun!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s