Local Spectacular 

The fire down the street brought us all out. 
I’d never seen so many of the neighbors. 
Dogs wagged their tails; a child gave a shout 
at seeing, like a dozen ice cream flavors, 
primary colors melting into one  
bright burning globe. Then, with a blast, the hose 
burst it apart into God only knows 
how many fires, like an exploding sun. 
 
It was a plastics warehouse so the blaze 
had taken hold as if it meant to stay. 
It must have lasted, in all, about ten days 
and came back twice when the men went away. 
We gathered there and saw acrylic flames, 
by elemental and synthetic means, 
make light of tons of water and machines 
supposed to save us from such risky games. 
 
Those were the coldest days so far this year. 
Where water fell on trees and shrubbery, 
winter recovered what it had stripped bare 
and fashioned us a crystal gallery  
of witching tracery, an icy screen 
or furnace grate to watch the fire through, 
allowing us a safely distant view 
and artfully disposing the whole scene. 
 
The first day when the crowd collected there 
we somehow sensed the reason for the noise, 
why dogs will bark, why children stop and stare 
in dazzled witness at what age enjoys  
from other angles, knowing worse and more, 
or overlooks as days begin to slip 
and pass like scenery on an endless trip. 
Yet, even then, some went on working as before. 
 
Next door the crew of builders kept on building. 
It seems forever now since they began 
on one part or another of the building, 
masons and plumbers and the company man 
who dons a hard-hat while he takes his strolls. 
He eyes the seams where separate panels meet 
on twelve pale stories of pre-cast concrete 
soon to house a thousand some odd souls. 
 
I guess he has to wonder, Will it hold? 
as most of us below must sometimes pause, 
looking up at the home for the poor and old, 
to investigate the whole of it for flaws. 
But that day we were treated to collapse 
akin to our imagining but real, 
as though in answer to a mute appeal 
the fire caught where we had set the traps. 
 
Haven’t you passed the station, once at least, 
and spied the polished, apple-colored wagons 
and brilliant chrome? And were you never teased 
into a brief daydream of fire and dragons? 
Bells sound alarms and summon sturdy gallants. 
Babes wail and maidens cry till help arrives. 
You lend a hand at saving several lives. 
Danger stirs and wakens hidden talents. 
 
But then, no one was there to save or burn. 
We marveled how the fire played tricks with plastic 
and twice deceived the men with its return 
though, finally, nothing happened really drastic. 
They’ve moved the warehouse to another site. 
Once more there’s little cause to bark or shout. 
By day a vacant lot stares blankly out 
at passers-by and gathers shades by night.  

Lawrence Rhu is the Todd Professor of the Italian Renaissance, emeritus, at the University of South Carolina and co-hosts “Simple Gifts,” a monthly music and poetry event, at the Columbia Friends Meeting. His poems have appeared in Poetry, North Dakota Quarterly, Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Poetry Society of South Carolina Yearbook, Pinesong, Fall Lines, Conversations: The Journal of Cavellian Studies, Jogos Florais, Forma de Vida, etc.  His collection of poems, Pre-owned Odyssey and Rented Rooms was published by Main Street Rag in 2024.