waiting for a fire

as kids

we hung around the old

firehouse,

station 42 up

on the hill, not far from

where we lived.

the men

were old and young.

skinny

and fat,

funny for the most

part in their

suspenders and metal

hats.

sliding down the pole

when the bells

rang out.

but most days they sat

around

and ate chicken and white

bread, slathered

in butter

or gravy,

drank milk

and ate cake they brought

in from home.

they sat there with their

large

boots and laughed

at the television.

they loved to clean and polish

the long

red trucks.

sometimes, bored, one

or the other would go to the woods

and start a little fire.

but most of them,

asleep with full bellies,

they enjoyed the long wait.