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We believed help was on the way\r\nI never believed the churches; Jesus is a myth, right?\r\n\r\nCity workers, the mayor would help us and so would the Feds\r\nIn the night, crawling from an attic into a net\r\n\r\nMe, grasping stinging threads of a thick rope in the dark night -\r\nWhuppph! Was this the end I rocked my child to sleep for?\r\n\r\nWas this the ending? Way worse than a TV show ending?\r\nAn anonymous end - me, wet itchy clothes, the dark...\r\nNow with the light descending\r\n\r\nI want to think about the myth:\r\nOf me doing life differently than my mom and dad did -\r\nOr differently than those who ended up suffering or dead\r\n\r\nAs I bounce up to the copter, a star shines over New Orleans\r\nHearing a garbled voice on the chopper radio - \"10-4\" I pretend\r\n\r\nI\'m back to my same job and neighborhood - just for a few seconds\r\nThen I remember who\'s leftâ€\"clinging to air spaces in attics\r\n\r\nOr baking on hot roofs, hoping help is on the way\r\nThen, as my mind drifts into waters of hurt, stink, and longing\r\n\r\nI want to look back at that star...\r\n\r\n\'Are you OK, hun?\' a high drawl touches my bent shoulders\r\nI heave in sobs, as if the voice was my late mother\'s...\r\n\r\n\'Sh-sure,\' I stutter, \'th-thanks, r-really, thanks.\'\r\nI whisper to New Orleans drifting - \'Help is on the way\'