I Pray It Never Rains

The fire extinguishers, though    
in flagrant red, you see only    
when you lift to sweep under.    
   
The CCTV screen gets glanced at    
a few times a day, while    
insects flit and flash white,    
   
and nervous-necked birds eye the lens,    
but the streets in camera view    
do not delight the village gossip.    
   
Those smoke alarms in every room,  
stay eager though mute, promise
and potentials kept at bay.
 
On your way out of the house,    
you pause by the doorway    
and stare at the umbrellas.    
   
I pray your extinguishers    
never know the shape of fire,    
your cameras show only    
   
quarreling canines and old men    
finally understanding    
the notion of exercise.    
   
May your smoke alarms know no work,    
your umbrellas remain huddled    
and idle in their ceramic stand,    
   
dry and mostly only there, begging    
for love, for glance, for grip, but    
only decorating life and doorway.