The color of the fire truck
By Mxxkie
New York City
Circa 2010
The incessant honks
Of hundreds of taxi cabs.
They hoarded the roads,
Like flies buzzing around a decaying carcass.
So too was the smell of the city alike.
The ground beneath my feet shook,
As the subways tunneled below.
Seven year old me, and my mom.
I don’t remember what I was wearing
Most likely something red, or orange,
Anything to combat the city’s drear.
A beacon of light.
I was good for that,
At least that’s what my folks said.
But things were about to change.
Chinatown,
A capitalist ploy,
I knew nothing of it, at the time.
Dragon reds, golden yellows,
Shop signs stuck out,
Lures to the mindless fish we were.
Content with plastic trinkets
And small nothings.
I was drawn in too.
There it sat, on one vendor’s cart,
Red, maybe like my coat,
But a bright, blood-like red,
Unlike the surrounding garnet designs,
A fire truck.
A plastic, red, fire truck.
Growing up, I was obsessed with them
And here one sat before me.
Could this trip have been worth it?
I grabbed it from the vendor’s cart,
Inspecting it in awe,
A sparkle filled my eyes,
The beat of my heart increased,
I turned to show my mom
Then the hit came.
I was knocked to the ground,
My mom spun around.
The vendor screamed
A language I couldn’t understand.
I think she thought I was stealing
The fire truck.
It didn’t matter,
Not like I was paying attention.
All I could focus on was
The color of the fire truck
Dripping from my cheek.
By Mxxkie
New York City
Circa 2010
The incessant honks
Of hundreds of taxi cabs.
They hoarded the roads,
Like flies buzzing around a decaying carcass.
So too was the smell of the city alike.
The ground beneath my feet shook,
As the subways tunneled below.
Seven year old me, and my mom.
I don’t remember what I was wearing
Most likely something red, or orange,
Anything to combat the city’s drear.
A beacon of light.
I was good for that,
At least that’s what my folks said.
But things were about to change.
Chinatown,
A capitalist ploy,
I knew nothing of it, at the time.
Dragon reds, golden yellows,
Shop signs stuck out,
Lures to the mindless fish we were.
Content with plastic trinkets
And small nothings.
I was drawn in too.
There it sat, on one vendor’s cart,
Red, maybe like my coat,
But a bright, blood-like red,
Unlike the surrounding garnet designs,
A fire truck.
A plastic, red, fire truck.
Growing up, I was obsessed with them
And here one sat before me.
Could this trip have been worth it?
I grabbed it from the vendor’s cart,
Inspecting it in awe,
A sparkle filled my eyes,
The beat of my heart increased,
I turned to show my mom
Then the hit came.
I was knocked to the ground,
My mom spun around.
The vendor screamed
A language I couldn’t understand.
I think she thought I was stealing
The fire truck.
It didn’t matter,
Not like I was paying attention.
All I could focus on was
The color of the fire truck
Dripping from my cheek.
