When the firemen came
you stood in your doorway
and stared at them,
incredulous,
having tried to divert them
elsewhere, the place where
you said the true emergency was.

You wanted to be her hero.
She even asked you if you would.
Naturally, you obliged,
having had
years of practice at calling
for help for anyone but
your wreck of a self.

It is the picture of you
that flags me down, then
douses me in truth:
You, arms waving wildly,
screaming, “Emergency! 9-1-1,
Emergency!” pointing
the finger at me.

I am too exhausted
to make a stand, so I let them
carry me away. And just
like that you
disappear from my life
as my world is burning down.
You are off to help someone.