Fire Drill

Today was fire drill, the stamp and grind stop.

Skiver’s delight, we filed out in lines, like school yard time.

Cowling and Smith set each other dares. Tolson flicked a rhythm on a can; Mackinlay stares and points and glares. Harding, Peterson turned and ran.

Back upstairs, the fag room empty and the old pot plate; feeling half their weight they lit and flicked, oasis of a double-break. Fell asleep to smouldering dreams.

And then the sound: A distant crowd.

And then the sound.

Harding would have played the drums, or inside-left to great applause, inside, Peterson would have tackled blazes; hosed this crappy factory down, sifted charcoal remains, kicked up this old plate, remembered happy times crouched round; the faggers team, the skiver’s eleven. They fell asleep their smouldering dreams.

And then the sound: A distant crowd.

And then the sound: A distant crowd.

Their dreams smouldering up in smoke.