Firehouse

by Leigh Donaldson

The silent group
sits in front of a building
made of brick and mortar
that houses shiny, red,
toy–like trucks.

They smoke half–lit cigarettes
waiting for
the shriek of catastrophe
that springs them into sudden life.

We all sit
outside the structures of our lives
waiting for a pillar to fall.

We believe that only then
will we know
why
we sat and waited.