the parade

The Parade.

The fire fighters in my village were on
parade, shiny helmets, polished axes
made them look like roman centurions,
in modern uniforms.

A minister, in Armani suit, had come
from the metropolitan to tell them how
wonderful they were; chests, heads and
stomachs swelled

When the minister had gone back to
the big city, there was a grand party,
at the station, Chiefs and Indians; lucky
there wasn’t a fire that night.