In my class on fire drills, I teach students
about straight lines, efficient ways to die
and the mysticism of alphabetical order.
I teach them how to say nothing when they speak
and how to make their voices audible only to dogs.
They ask me, one day, When we burn to death
on the twenty-third floor of a Miami hotel,
when we see the smoke take on the shapes
of all we’ve never accomplished, should we still
take the stairs when we leave?
I’m about to answer when a fire drill hits.
We stand outside for a while, talking about
quadratic equations, the dates of great wars,
the abbreviations for the elements, especially
the ones that can kill you invisibly.