We waited for the signal idly,
not really listening
to your cries when you
mistook which color code to switch to in case of emergence into
how it could have been:

when you grabbed for a crutch
and it wasn't the panic button.


We were all there, linked by hoses in sagging canvas uniforms
painted with dust instead of soot.

Our work was unseen, in transit to take your call,
underway; a mission in progress,
but you weren't there to respond when we called back.

We could have answered sooner, I believe.
It was the connection, perhaps. Or the brief moment of wakefulness
to the insane clatter of a foreign purpose.

It was the squirrel risking the street,
or the spark that blew past your fuse--
and who made that fuse?


I wish we could have helped you,
but you got the wrong department.

Light a match and we'll put it out.
Build a fire and we'll salvage what we can.

09/01/2004

Author's Note: "Blame is the cure cure anything" - Soul Coughing

Posted on 09/01/2004
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen