Fire in the toaster oven, the poetry version

Patron saint of editors with impossible deadlines.

I once became so frustrated by an author
who demanded that I edit his dissertation more quickly
that I accidentally lit the toaster oven on fire.

I woke my husband with a whisper
holding the phone against my hip
so the author wouldn’t know what had happened.

“Fire! The toaster oven! The toaster oven’s on fire,”
I said as he stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen.
He unplugged it, then poured a pot of water over it.

We now have no toaster oven, because of one demanding author.
And I have to make toast by laying bread on a pan on the stove.
If I had had a patron saint of editors with impossible deadlines,
none of this would have happened.

I imagine he, or she, yes she, would have sneaked in through the window
and turned off the toaster oven after I walked away with my burnt toast.
Then, she would have made me some new toast before going.

She would have replaced the charcoal on my plate
with perfectly browned and buttered bread
and made my deadline possible with just a little act of kindness.