deepundergroundpoetry.com

Fire in the second row.

In the Summer
my mother and I
visited Amsterdam
and sat in the hotel room
rolling joints,
on the edges of my mind.
I won't subside, or drown,
this tale in another of my endless
rambling metaphors, at least I'll try not to.
The fire alarms screeched,
feet running outside the door.
"Get your stuff, get your fucking stuff!"
She was screaming again, I knew it was too much
to ask for a quiet holiday, though I didn't mind.
The woman, with black hair and a steel jaw, grabbed my jumper
and shoes and hollered again waving the door
back and forth at my face.
"Can we go? Fire's here, Poppy!"
I left my shoes and pulled a rolled joint from my bag.
Forget the jumper, it wouldn't be that cold.
People were screaming...over one room blazing?
Six fire trucks, looking like a children's set,
turned up, though the flesh fetching hoses and ladders were all
man.
I sparked my joint, hid in the corner
and shivered.
It wasn't going to get warm soon.
Mum sat happily in my jumper and shoes,
I sat happy with hypothermia and a joint.
Now that's the difference about ageing.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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