I want to be there in an emergency,
though my job takes me to the other coast.
I am always meaning to quit
so that I’m closer than a phone call
when you really have need of me.
Staring from a rented room
at an entirely different ocean,
my mind has you followed on a lonely dark street
or swimming near a rip current
or clutching your chest at a sudden pain.
Who would save you but I?
Those are the forms my worry takes,
and my vanity is no better.
But, to you, I offer the good money
our separation pays, the fear of
any change in circumstance,
the disquieting mantra of “so far, so good.”
But how does that stack up against
something that happens when I’m not around.
I’m the man of the house, your sworn protector,
the image of my father, the heir to his creed.
And you’re always saying you can look after yourself.
Well I want to be there when you tell me that.
