There are strange people in your house.
Helmets on their heads, bottles on their backs.
Rush in, they did. Asked if you were okay.
Walked past you, moving you aside.
Dousing things, grabbing things, moving things.
Asking what you were doing when the fire started.
Meatballs. From the fridge. Someone had
dropped them off yesterday. Kissed your cheek.
You told her she looked like your daughter.
That's a fine supper tonight, you thought.
Heat them up, on the stove. Blue gas flame
under tupperware. Smoke. Some siren started.
And now there are strange people in your house.