Aluminum tank
indifferent in its place
behind a glass door
in the passageway,
like a tea urn
in a museum case;
screaming-machines
that dumbly spend each day
waiting for gas or smoke
or hands or heat,
positioned like beige land mines
overhead,
sanguine on walls,
or posted on the street
like dwarf grandfather clocks
spray painted red;
little gray hydrant
in its warlike stance;
old fire escape,
all-weather paint job peeling,
a shelf for threadbare rugs
and yellowing plants;
sprinkler heads,
blooming from the public ceiling;
all sitting
supernaturally still,
waiting for us to cry out.
And we will.
