My Good Fireman

I’d just finished a morning 

being Mrs. Dalloway–

shopping: a florist stop, gas station, post office 

and a quick moment at the supermarket. 

Driving home, phone calls roll in—

my daughter with a funny story,

my mother, in nursing home

needing more perfume.

In the driveway, a large

phoenix-red fire truck!

“What did I do?” I scream

“Your alarm went off; open the door, stat.”

I’m greeted by a wall of smoke. 

The fireman dashes to my stove

recognizing the sulfur smell.

“My husband will kill me:

I left the eggs on the stove.”

He tells don’t worry.

I will handle it,

with a flirtatious smile,

wiping egg particles 

plastered to the kitchen window.

My husband enters.

Before anger spews from his mouth,

the protective fireman puts his hand out.

This happens all the time

as I nod affectionately.