Pyrocene

You, my vintage dresses,
my Italian shoes:
are you a character I step inside?
Are you my muse?
Are you a dream of who I’d be —
if and when
and how and what is she?
For though I drape myself 
in dupioni and charmeuse,
you are a fantasy —
alive in me, but not me.

Would my dreaming die
if you should burn as raging wildfires melt above me?
If I leave my home without you,
taking just my cat and man
(I’d miss them more —
for they are flesh and blood) 
and so we venture out the door
besieged by flame, 
constricting smoke around us…

Should we escape,
we would congratulate each other on our luck:
we live!
But you,
in plastic bags but not evacuated,
I would still grieve.