ALAN
FRIEDMAN
not anywhere. He lowered the handles of the wheelbarrow gravely
as he said it, sat down on the bench beside me, and began tenderly
braiding my hair. "What're you doing, Millie?" he said.
"Writing a poem. What rhymes with fire?"
"Lots
of things. Tire, or fire. "
"I've already got fire."
"Well, then spire."
We were sitting across the street from my house. Inside through
the porch windows I could see my father reading the Sunday paper,
and my mother playing the piano, and over by the cellar door the
smoke which seemed to be coming from the garden where my
uncle had been gathering dead leaves and burning them. I had a
school copybook on my lap and a pencil in the hand that wasn't
scratching. My knees, sticking out beyond the hem of my skirt,
were dirty as usual, this time with coal dust, and I moved the copy–
book cautiously along my skirt with the tip of the pencil while my
uncle was busy with my hair, to cover my knees. He said, "How
come you're writing poetry?"
"Because I've got something extra important to say to Mommy
and Daddy: And I can't use ·spire."
"Well, let me see what you got so far. "
I want to tell you right away
About a big red fire,
That if you want the house t'o stay
You've got to
His breath smelled while he pondered the verse over my shoulder.
"That's not bad," he said. "What about in-spire?"
I gave it some thought and shook my head.
"Per-spire?"
"Uncle Lemmie," I rebuked him, " this is 'erious. I was down
III
the cellar before, and if they don't calI the fire engines soon,
we won't
have
a house. There's a whole pile of Daddy's ,old· news–
papers caught fire from the ,stove."
What with Daddy running with water buckets in a' ,minute or
two and Mommy screaming and Unde Lemmie and my brother
breaking the fire alarm box and calling the fire engines, and
the
