I watched the fire commissioner standing
behind the talking head
on a TV suspended
above a treadmill I've seen him use
in our run-down gym.
The police chief was announcing
that an arson suspect
had been arrested.
The commissioner's cheeks
twitched grief.
One of his men,
one of his comrades,
one of his brothers,
a father of two little girls,
had died in the fire when a floor collasped.
Eventually he came to the podium but
I could not hear him.
Bonnie Raitt was howling
through my iPod — about a loss, no doubt —
in a wail that seems substantial, usually,
but was hollow, like a lone drumbeat, now.
I pumped up the speed
and sprinted full bore.
I did not want to hear him.
I did not need to hear him.
I could see his eyes.
I could see his cheeks twitch.
I could not imagine his rage.