Music by my great uncle Amos Parrott (1895-1990). I don’t know the name of this song and wish I did. If you do, let me know.
Dig the plaid pants. Yup, that’s me in 1978. Not responsible for any resultant blindness from viewing picture.
In Case of Fire Break Glass
I started with the aquarium.
It made sense: fire, water.
For a brief moment I felt bad
about the fish, but a gulping,
glassy-eyed molly isn’t sentient enough
to rouse much guilt.
Besides, there was a fire.
Next I reached deep in the upper kitchen cabinets
and dragged out tumblers, thin-stemmed
goblets and heavy mugs, letting them fall
to the hardwood floor. Those not shattered
I stomped to bits. At the china I paused.
Glass? My knowledge was hazy.
The term “glass glaze” sounded vaguely familiar.
Plates, cups, saucers went flying.
Corelle isn’t easy to break.
Hot, covered in sweat and purpose, I drove fists
into faces framed upon the walls,
murmuring quick apologies before each.
My glasses have plastic lenses
but their name sufficed.
Polycarbonate is much sturdier than Corelle.
With a final flourish I grabbed a plant stand
and swung it at the TV screen,
the computer monitor,
at each window, room by room.
The candle on the coffee table flickered
then died, leaving a thin, looping thread
of white smoke to rise in silence.
A cinnamon scent lingered.
The crystal figurines on the mantel came to mind,
as did the Christmas ornaments in the attic.
I lit the candle again.
