Nothing so lovely as a fire escape

can be expected to waste decades

waiting to rescue a building.

Though its airy iron form is suited

to its purpose, it must perform

daily functions as well.

It must permit aproned ladies

to escape the indoor heat and smoke

menthols and dangle long legs high

above covetous cities. And allow

pensioners to fill clay pots

with geraniums and begonias red

against the black skeleton.

A gray cat must be free to prowl

up and down terraced morning shadows,

entering windows where gingham curtains

swell with scents of butter and cream.

For a sliver of day the fire escape is a sundial,

ticking black shadows on bright granite.

But by nightfall it is a stage

for black-gloved thieves and adulterers

gonging their unlaced exits.

Only the firemen,

forever cursing unenforced codes,

know the fire escape’s iron intent.

 

— Loch Raven Review, 2010