The other day online I saw the Strand
in flames from forty years ago, the theater
three blocks down once we moved into town
where I faked it through fourth grade. The fire
screaming into the sky as if it had been a hotel
full of hay, this dark den where my parents
sent me week after week to get me out of
the way since they had a new mortgage

that needed money and here I was such
a fixed fact at an awkward age, not old enough
as in useful, not small enough to send to bed.
So from those stale-smelling seats I watched
the outsized selves on a long, loud screen,
thieves like me, singers, sorcerers, sexy stuff,
this mix that made me walk back different
every time until no one could make out

who I was anymore. After the crisis came
with the mortgage and its money, it was
no surprise the Strand blew itself up the way
I later would when even my one life was too
much for me. But just as in sleep night after
night, whatever burns down in you will still
stand in the morning, and you will still
have to pay for it by the light of the day.