Bells sound them from sleep, and their imaginations <br />rise, recite all they have been told: the curtains <br /> <br />of fire, the beds, nightgowns, their hair, their hair. <br />They've practiced this escape before <br /> <br />and know to close the windows last, descend <br />the darkened flights of stairs in practiced wordlessness <br /> <br />to line up, barefoot, on the dew-wet lawn, <br />face the building, pretend to watch it burn.<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fire-drill/
