after the mid-night fire

the tenement is a
lump on the street;
he hears sirens
after the crisp
cuttings of grass
smoking on that used
house—his and his
sister’s room—
in rolled caves of
quilt he used to see
the dark shades of color—
the one that matched
her photos and wardrobe
and the back of that chicken
Father once brought
home well and good humored—
laughing with mouth opened;
tie hanging loose since the
whistle closed the graveyard shift.