(September 6, 2026)
It could have gone otherwise.
Had the afternoon readings not run long,
had dinner at the Waverly not been glacial,
had everything gone off as planned,
the poets and publishers (nine in number)
would have been abed, even asleep,
when the bicycle shop downstairs blew up.
But it did go that way. So a night spent
watching lights and flames flashing, ladders and axes
in action, hoses spurting, smoke billowing
from our rooms and breathing it too,
left bicycles burnt to bones. But the historic hostel
was saved, and so were we. "You were very lucky,"
said the fire chief.
Our things, gathered in the morning from the reeking rooms,
passports, phones, laptops, sad clothing that would soak
in smoke-stew, be washed over and over, hung out for days and days—
these would survive. Our eyes, throats, and lungs would freshen too,
if not a load of precious books, unsalvageable from the stench.
Before we parted and left for what came next, Dan said
"I'm going across the street to the liquor store
to buy whiskey for the firemen."
© Robert Michael Pyle (2026)