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.