A Ballroom Fire

Inspired by the nightclub fire at "The Station" on 2/20/2003.


The lights went out. A scream, panic, plea, a manic exigency; a fog of smoke unseen; a darkness. The vast ballroom now seemed much, much smaller.

First there was a gunshot,
The catalyst of a fiery blaze,
Then there was sight of a spot
That led out of the labyrinth’s maze.

The fire sprinklers turned on, but it did not help. What must have happened, as the fire chief sullenly stated after the calamity, was that the hollow tip bullet hit a faulty outlet causing an electrical surge to domino through the floorboards and cause the entire room to transform into a fiery sepulcher.

But in the commotion there was misfortune,
Forgive us our sins, Father, for fickle we are
Homosapiens, “The Wise Ones,” a scratched
Nostalgic classic sucked leech-like hollow bone—
Dry spun too many times from habituation.

Yes, it is true, as is true in most tragedies, a few did survive. A few settled in the nest outside on the rainy wet street that evening. These people hailed Mary; they prayed to their Father; they thanked God it wasn’t them that didn’t make it out. And who is to blame these people? The innateness of self-preservation—one exit door, four feet wide, one-hundred and fifty sweaty guests in a scramble—it would give Darwin an erection.

The flames subsided and the ashes settled like they always do,
The news station now had two whole weeks of material to use,
A memorial was made to remember those fallen to the blaze,
Memories were carved in pavement where they will always remain,
The blame, of course, as we humans tend to allocate,
Was haloed atop a requiem’s song resuscitating the fallen grave.