9229. FURY

FURY

One time my father snuck me through the

gate; we were going to a fire, watching

Staten Island burn. All those oil tanks

and gas flares, something abandoned

had blown up and there were wild

flames everywhere. I could see his

face in the dark red light of the new

black night  - that was no longer

black at all but white. I remember,

at age seven astounding myself at

how I could feel the waves of

billowing heat as that warmed 

along my cheeks, as if the sides

of my face were parts of the fire.

-

I can't remember where he parked or

how, or why we went or the length of

time we stayed. It must have meant

something to him, and though we 

talked I can't remember a thing. Is

there a point when a force of this

sort becomes a delivering element

for a man entrapped by his own life?

Maybe so, and maybe that's why he'd go.

And bring me along, I guess, just to then

witness his projected fury. I never said

a thing. Just took it in, and learned.

-

My life was never quite the fury his

became, and, though I may have had

my moments, I never burned. I never 

flamed in such disastrous fashion  -  to

where I had to get away, to where I

needed to see what the fire was like.

By contrast, I'm peaceful;

my soul is all right.