They had said goodbye for years
before the moving van parked
its undeniable weight outside their house.
He touched the curtains she let him keep
and waited for answers to fall from their folds.
She gave a last look
at a jury of cartons marked fragile
and there is no other way.
They were pulling out their master plans
for escape because who remembers
what they want to take
from a burning house?  At times like that

thick smoke blocks the importance of things.
Books and jewelry too far from reach
give themselves as sacrifice,
glad for the moment they become flame,
a way they die from the scene no one will forget.

  Only the cat knows the way to safety,
thins himself and slips through the crack
in a back screen door.  Getting out
with his fur unsigned, he knows
what they haven’t learned, that only what’s living
survives a scene like this.  When she is gone,
she’ll forget how her shoes were warmed
by approaching heat.  He will stay behind
like a long ago captain going down with a wreck
wishing he were standing in a different disaster.