Heat by Sharon Waller Knutson

Flames blacken
the lush greenery
In 105 temperatures.

The Fire Chief,
covered in soot,
shouts Evacuate.

Smoke swirls,
tankers dump
retardant on our roof.

We sit on folding
chairs in the air
conditioned rec hall,

nap on recliners
and eat sandwiches
at a friend’s home,

sneak past the firemen
guarding the gate
to sleep in our own bed,

until smoke and flames
drive us out and we repeat
the same routine again.



Sharon Waller Knutson, a retired journalist, writes poetry from her Arizona desert home. Her work has appeared in The Orange Room Review, Literary Mama, Verse-Virtual, Wild Goose Poetry Review and Your Daily Poem. She is the author of five chapbooks: Dancing with a Scorpion, My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields, Desert Directions, They Affectionately Call Her a Dinosaur and I Did It Anyway.