The fire began in the cobbler’s shop
In a terrace of shops that day,
And spread right through to the milliners
That was owned by Mrs. Gray,
It leapt up into the rooftop beams
And galloped along the street,
Burning a swathe through the fodder stores
And the blacksmith, Simon Fleet.

The smoke rose into an Autumn sky
And blackened the old clock tower,
It didn’t pause, it was far too dry
For even an Autumn shower,
And Simon said, as the embers fell
To the household servant, Gert,
‘The courtyard’s starting to look like hell,
Get out of that silken skirt.’

He hadn’t looked twice at Gert before
And she was so awful shy,
While he was never the greatest catch
With his horseshoe-looking eye,
But once he saw that the embers fell
He was more than kept alert,
He knew the fabric would burn like hell,
The silk in the servant’s skirt.

She’d bought the skirt, it was second-hand
From a Drapers along the street,
It felt so silky and smooth, she’d said
From her waist down to her feet,
She liked the line of the skirt, the lads
Would see her pass, and stare,
So like the ladies she aped, she swore
To wear no underwear.

So Gert had blushed as she heard the words
Of the Blacksmith, Simon Fleet,
She wasn’t going to show her legs
To Simon, out in the street,
The skirt went up with a sudden roar
And he heard her pitiful cries,
So trying his best to douse the flames
He wrapped canvas round her thighs.

The blaze was stopped by the corner shop
Where the fire engine stayed,
And kept from running its rampant course
Along the Grand Parade,
But Simon said it was Gertie’s legs
That had failed her, in her pride,
But caught his eye with a tender sigh
As they fed the fire inside.

Whenever they speak of the shopfront fire
It’s as if it paved the way,
The two have said, to the day they wed
And their happiness today,
For Gertie doesn’t have charming looks
And he’s ugly too, says Gert,
But Simon says it’s a treat, that heat,
Under a silken skirt.

David Lewis Paget

The cacophony of metal cutting metal screeches,
burying the sound of 2,000 automobile engines, one train,
and 45 yapping onlookers.

I am self-actualizing.

The ******* Oriental who cut me off
learns the meaning of justice in a hair-split second.

I howl as I force his car further to the side of the road.
He's yelping, feeling fright claw his once-proud brain.

I look up, trying to keep my car on the road.
We tear past shopfront after shopfront,
patrons wailing, pointing, finally finding
something mad enough to put down their forks.

I see skeletal trees,
overshadowed by a red wrecking ball,
an out-of-business record shop,
the metal still crying the most demonic
siren's song.

Further I push him,
he's on pavement,
my little Oriental enemy.
I look at him again.
His knuckles are milk white,
his brow covered with perspiration,
his mouth bleeding from his own bite.

Then he hits.

A stoplight post of solid steel,
with three or so feet of concrete surrounding.
I learn he isn't wearing a seat belt.
Glass grinds his delicate skin, he catapults through the air,
then flattens against a newspaper dispenser.

Then I hit.

A **** Suburban in front of me,
who had stopped to watch the carnage,
now found itself partaking.

I have my seatbelt on,
the bags deploy,
thumping my head and
chest like a crippled bolt of lightning.

The Suburban spins into oncoming traffic,
getting further rearranged by
a pile-up of moaning metal.

My truck comes to a stop.
Smoke cascades languidly,
as humans shout in unison,
"I hope you have good insurance!"

I walk back fifteen yards to the
newspaper dispenser.

The Oriental man twitches,
blood pooling about his head
and left arm.

I stoop down closer to him,
look at his silent Rorschach ****** features,
gaze over my shoulder.
The Suburban lies in smoldering ribbons,
driver probably trying to get into heaven.

Shouts continue, building upon one another,
a crowd gathers around me,
whispers all similar to "what the hell happened?"
flame up and burn through the collective.

"Did you know him?" a small black boy,
with teeth of snow asks.

"Not real well, but don't worry kid, he wasn't a good man."

I rummage through the crowd until I break through,
I hear sirens of some sort in the distance,
unclear of cop or ambulance,
I survey the damage to my truck-
a light busted out,
bent bumper,
and what looks like a few holes drilled into the grill.
I open the door,
clumsily ruffle the airbag,
put my key in the ignition,
and to my delight
when I turn the beast,
it purrs submissively.

I grin, let my fingertips
briefly dance on the steering wheel,
and put the truck in reverse.

This for the little brothers
And the widowed mothers
To the Sunday morning snoozers
And the gamenight losers
To the wimps in the schoolyard
And even the bullies just down the boulevard
Shake the dust.

This is for the shopfront greeters,
The youth group worship leaders,
For the early morning joggers and the late night bike riders,
And for the boy who's crush loves someone else
For milk crate ball players,
And for the wallflower haters
Plant the forests.

To the sleepers and the dreamers,
And to the bed-wetters,
As well as the lonely love letters
To the broken hearts who write poems
And the broken souls that stole them
To men who work for a family they never see
And girls who want a lover but they'll never be
Split the seas.

For the heavens you have lived and the hells you felt you have gone through,
For the demons who have overcame and the ones yet to be overcome
For the ones who have stuck with the Lord all the same
And the ones who don't yet know His name
For the fair-weather friends the friends 'til the end
The overnighters and the stories told at campfires
Move the mountains.

This is to the poet, and lovers who don't yet know it
To the writers but it's just a hobby,
The Debbie Downers who can't stop me
This is for the authors whose books is left unread on dusty shelves
And the girls who hate the look of themselves
To the ones, that when it rains, they choose to sing
And the winter you must endure to reach the spring
Shake the dust.

This is to all of you,
and I will say it again: shake the dust.
Because from the dust you were made,
and to the dust you will return.
So let this poem not be mere words that barely flow,
may this poet not just be another kid,
too quixotic to change the world.
But might my poetry be the notes
which your words are carried by.
Let them swing and sway,
a piece to our battlecry,
some sylable in your life story.
Because from the dust you will rise,
so carry the dirt with you
and take the world by storm,
for the ground you scrape from your palms
is the story you form.

Forgive me,
I ask, as I knock at your door.
For our differences.
For the cruel things that I've said to you.

Forgive me,
For being your daughter.
For not being that well enough.

Forgive me for chasing my happy,
My premonition of leaving you
To your own devices.
To find myself, new, in the fall.
That ghost of a spirit who swears that she loves you,
But only comes home at Thanksgiving.

Forgive her.

Forgive her for lying to you,
For saving her skin because she thought that you would be proud.
She is sorry
That every day she made you spend hours alone,
Languishing in your own spiral,
And then, coming home, went downstairs;
Not to talk to you of her life,
Or of all that she wanted to do
With those eighteen years that you gave her.
In eighteen more years,
You'll have given her thirty-six,
It will tighten her to you,
Draw it in desperate colors.

Because that was the age when you picked her out
Of the shopfront inside of your mind, said
Lord, give me this one,
Give me a daughter to love.
And wrapped her up in one pretty bow,
Of one dark, slightly raised freckle,
That lies on the back of my hand
And forgives you.
For all of those failings you told me,
Once, that you had.

Forgive me,
For thinking about myself,
More than I thought about you.

Forgive me for being a young person,
Lost in my love, in my pain;
In the shows I watched on television,
And the music that I listened to.
Instead of my schoolwork and daring to dream.
To live up to the girl that you saw in your prophecy visions,
When I was but five minutes old.

Forgive me,
For saying bad words and sneaking away,
Without telling you where I had gone.
Don't you see that I'm telling you now?

Forgive me, I say, and I'm here at your doorstep.
How is it that you look the same to me now,
As when I was only seven,
And didn't know how long you'd lived,
In a country with separate words?

Forgive me, I say, and you stop me there.
What is there, you ask, to forgive?

My face, knotted in the shopfront glass,
then smeared smooth, unfolding

in strangest waves and furls
until it's me again, the mask restored.

I do this several times. Step left,
I'm a minotaur, a funhouse scream,

a maze-horror, a twist and blink.
Step right, the pane straightens me

into a mid-life crisis.
But I can't help but wonder

if it's like a coat hanger:
once bent, never really true again;

the mirror regurgitates destinies
as casually as How Do You Do.

I wander down the walk and wonder
if my eye is still slivered and daubed

into a blanched, branched pool
of wild milk spoiling in the open air.