Fire on Peterborough Street

I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today.
The sun was still the same,
April breezes mocking this
last day in March.  Nearby
the park was becoming alive;
but I was in the specter of
the dead.  Seven, eight, maybe
thirteen unlucky dead.
 
We stood, stared up,
we the witnesses,
staring at each other
to make sure
we were alive.
 
I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today and
walked to the corner.
To a ruined house full of
smoky ghosts, flaming spirits.
Windowless, roofless,
lifeless, except for a tiny
green plant that seemed to
outlive the blaze.
 

I woke up in a Red Cross
disaster area today.  Not
knowing what to do, I made
clumsy bags of soup, noodles
and raisins for those who
leaped out of windows or
clung to burning fire escapes...
crying out in the cold night.  
 
I stood again to watch the   
jaws of demolition cranes     
snap up debris and limbs.