Handkerchiefs tied over our noses
  like old west bandits or drovers,
           we rode south into the blackened Bitterroot
to pack & move household goods
       nine miles up the East Fork Road.
           Stump holes still smoldered in the canyon
north of Sula. Scorched remains 
       of houses slumped into duff.
                A few hearth & chimney monuments
stood in testament to flame. We came
    equipped with boxes & tape to salvage
               this old couples' chattel, the tangible stuff
of fifty years. We packed the cracked china,
      jelly & soap glasses, the photos
            of flowers, faces, & snow.
We took the Bibles, the ash trays,
    the ceramic Christmas tree, 
                left the beds, the satellite, & the color
TV. The power was out. The old lady
    had a cane & an agenda. She didn't want
            to go, but he was slowly losing
his mind. There were sprinklers on the roof.
     Chain saws whined. The Forest Service cleared
               brush, limbed trees around the house.
The firestorm was a ridge away.
    Outside falling embers bit like gnats.
              She was taking him home to Pennsylvania, 
away from this smoke & danger, back
    to his family, Pittsburgh & steel. He once shook
            hands with Jack Kennedy, she whispered. 
Look at him now. Alcohol did it.
        We followed the pumper trucks out,
          all of our efforts a matter of retreat.
The old man drove them away. We adjusted
 our masks, headed into the black, mad
               to get home & even madder for a drink.