In Case of Emergency

The power died and the hallway went thick as tar.

I had to feel my way past the neighbor's heavy door.

I didn't know the wall, or where the handles are,

or how many paces of grease were on the floor.

Now the light is back, buzzard-bright and mean.

I'm staring at the red tank by the trash chute.

An inspection tag from twenty-one, barely clean,

dangling by a wire like a piece of shriveled-up fruit.

I try to memorize the nozzle and the hose

and the little round gauge where the needle is stuck.

It’s been sitting there while the building's debt grows,

a silent red ghost waiting for our luck to run out.