The Backporch Review 2022

The Color of the Fire Truck
By Noah Brown, 12
New York City
Circa 2010
The incessant
And annoyed honks
Of hundreds of taxi cabs.
They hoarded the roads,
Up and down,
Back and forth,
Like flies buzzing around a decaying carcass.
So too was the smell of the city alike.
The ground beneath my feet shook
As the subways tunneled below.
Seven year old me and my mom.
I don’t remember what I was wearing
Most likely something red, or orange,
Anything to combat the city’s drear.
A beacon of light.
I was good for that,
At least that’s what my folks said.
But things were about to change.
Chinatown,
A capitalist ploy,
I knew nothing of it at the time.
Dragon reds, golden yellows,
Shop signs stuck out,
Lures to the mindless fish we were.
Content with plastic trinkets
And small nothings.
I was drawn in, too.
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