As I am sitting on this fire escape,
I can see the flames that would eat away
At some Sunday morning. Alarms would sound;
Little old ladies would let out a scream
And traces of smoke would float through the air.
Perhaps that coffee cake for coffee hour
Was left in the oven just long enough…
Or the lay person didn’t quite put out
His match after lighting the white candles…
The smallest children would probably cry–
Tears and snot staining their angelic faces.
And these kids, in their Sunday best–with their
Ruffled dresses, button down shirts and shiny,
Uncomfortable shoes–
Would be ushered down the fire escape stairs,
Walking briefly across the sticky roof
And then down to the safe, sacred ground.
But that nice, pious Sunday school teacher…
In her haste to get her pupils out the door,
Would catch one of her high heels on the grate
of the escape stairs,
And tumble a few steps to the concrete.
Battered and bloody and ashamed–but safe–
She would assure her students she was fine
And lead them away from the building,
Her face turning a deep shade of red
While she looked down at her torn pantyhose.