I want the ending we’ve earned even as I know it won’t land

on those who deserve it most, who engi­neered our fate not with their hands

(never with their own hands)

but with their barks and sneers and check­books snap­ping at heels

what am I saying. there’s nothing in the deck but calamity

we think we’re going the way of NOAA, as in gov­ern­ment agency—

we’re going the way of Noah, as in ark.

which brings me to you, named for one on the water, cur­rent­ly obsessed

with fire­fight­ers. are you pro­tect­ing your­self from a primal fear?

or reach­ing like three-year-olds do so forcefully

for a role, coat to put on, ladder to climb?

I hope you’ll tell me one day. for now,

you announce fires every­where, much to the alarm

of coffee shop patrons and library staff

who have learned there are some things you just don’t

say in crowded places   even as our planet

cries wolf, wolf, wolf

and I can under­stand the appeal of pretend fires

that always go out when bidden

when yours will be a world of thresh­old, waiting to see

not whether, but how much will burn.

it can’t all be calami­ty. I want better than what we’ve earned.

Noah, you’ll know this soon: the first firefighters

were your neigh­bors. You shout, and they come running

passing buckets like gen­er­a­tion lines

hand to hand to hand

to you: bucket and alarm in one

ready to account for everyone

ready to survive the flood.