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.
Amazing photos of what Saint Louis looked like 100 years ago.
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.