The fire extinguisher
spends its whole life
waiting
Joyous
as the little red center of the world
when disaster finally
strikes
Or mourning
its life force depleted
missing the pressurized purpose
of its foamy blood
It dies
to save a life
or a table
an ugly rug
sometimes the drama
of a burning car engine
it’s the hero — then
but off to the garbage heap
tomorrow
It has no tomorrows
that are plural
but it dies with an immaculate
profession of life fulfilled
we are envious
those of us
who wonder
why we are here.
