You can tap me like a tin can,
and hear me echo, end to end.
You can plop me down and fold me,
and surely I will bend.
__
You can kick me down the sidewalk,
and see me tumble on the cracks.
You can stick your hand inside me,
and fumble through this empty sack.
__
Going hollow is prerequisite,
before we’re set to punch that clock.
Going hollow is the mantra,
before we turn that fastened lock.
The tiki bar at sunset
is blood orange and sad.
—
Everybody here
is older than your mother,
and the karaoke, out of tune
and out of style.
—
And I know, for sure, that I
can’t talk my way out of this.
—
We won’t stay longer,
because I know the docks will
be torn apart when
the hurricane hits next week.
—
“There’s so much shit,” you say,
“to pack before we leave”.
—
Tomorrow morning,
“we ditch this swamp, head up North,”
you say, behind yet
another round of cocktails.
—
Tomorrow morning, we
get the hell away, again.
I was prepared, of course,
before the shit went down.
—
I saw the pipes the day they burst;
the fecal water bubbled up
from over-burdened sewers that
couldn’t hold it any longer.
—
I wasn’t warned, of course,
but that didn’t really matter.
—
We all knew it would all come out
on some unfortunate morning
when the Earth would one day spit back
everything we flushed away.
—
I was prepared, of course,
but that never really matters
They built a high-rise in a flood zone
because they knew the tenants would pay
to have a place far and high away.
On their porch below the sky,
they could watch the tide come through
as the ocean paints the city blue.
They would never have to worry
since they won’t be in a hurry
when the water billows through.
Their cars would be parked,
safely stored and marked.
Their clothes would be dry,
rest assured thereby
that all is well up top.
They built a high-rise in a flood zone
because they knew the tenants would pay
to be safe up high and far away.
Bookworm, Educator, Poet.