At the fire station down the road the fireman cuts the grass.
The banker counts the money.
The grocer stacks the pears.
The doctor counts heartbeats,
while the astrologist counts stars,
and the doorman holds the door.
But the fireman cuts the grass.
On the wall in the kitchen it says today is my day
to take out the trash.
I did that last week.
My brother says he must wash the pan
so he can go outside to play.
I want to go outside to play.
The trash plays foul.
Maybe I’ll call 911 to see if the fireman will come take it out.
Some people will do anything if it means
there are no flames to fight,
no lives to save, and
the kitchen wall can still hold up your name.
Tonight, the grass tickled my bare ankles as I
dragged the barrels across the front lawn.
The sky, a perfect shade of black,
had let all the stars come out to play.
PleaseGrace 