I’ve Seen Fire & I’ve Seen Rain!

Let’s call him Bob. He was a squatter in our storage facility.

Disembarking at LaGuardia after Christmas holiday in Miami,

my phone was ringing and texts blinking with urgent messages

from Julio, the night-time manager, about Bob’s tragic trespasses.

Apparently, Bob had been living inside our 12 x 12 metal box

located across the street from my hip, downtown Miami loft.

None knows how long Bob was squatting in our rented square

of cluttered furniture, books, photos, memories, kitchenware.

He showered in the dirty sink, to rid himself of the stink from

the streets. Though December, Miami was still hot and steamy.

Bob, the squatter, was homeless; I guess, technically no longer,

having found an enclosed home without paying a single utility.

Bob… Are you sitting in my self-gifted Herman Miller desk chair?

Playing the valued collection of vintage records without a care?

Are your fingers touching my beloved heirloom, antique piano?

Sleeping on sheets taken from boxes of our Marimekko bedding?

Thumbing through pages of journals with envisions of a wedding?

I can see you opening, leafing, invading, and staining our stored life.

Oh, Bob, I wish I knew what strife had befallen you. Were you sick?

Did you lose your business? Money? Mind? Were you a drug addict?

Stop, Bob… Please… Don’t do it. You cannot light up that cigarette.

It’s going to make a tinderbox of the Public Storage no one will forget.

Or will you? Will you care, survive it; and if you do, have remorse?

Stomp on it. Put it out. If it catches a box, there will be no recourse.

A safe haven for you, but you’re igniting fire to everything we own.

Bob, I scream too late, too far, get the fuck out of our storage home.

Miami firefighters deluged the unit with black hoses full of water.

Their report confirmed accidental arson, by cigarette of a squatter.

To this day, I cannot help but wonder how Bob wasn’t prior found.

Did he evade sight in the sink shower? Fail to utter audible sound?

On the eve of that New Year back in 2013, we felt violated, separated

from our material possessions. Shockingly soon, we found confession

and absolution. Perspective as we forgave Bob’s creation of fire and rain.

Ten years later, ready to ring in 2023, I don’t even recall the specific losses.

What I learned is shared unpredictability. A frailness in common humanity.

I was recently stripped of stability and home of my own. Financial calamity.

I’ve seen the sun, light, and love. Now I question, it is safer on land or water?

Like Bob, perhaps each of us, the same, different, is a temporary life squatter.