The street was storm-sacked.
I recalled watching death
of the cajun sell-out across the street
in the gas line fire.
I recall I woke to the wind talking to my wall
nothing to feel empowered.
I woke wondering how I was going to keep sane
it’s been three days now.
I thought of my mother, before her grieving.
I told him let me live there would be no charges.
I thought he said he’d had too many dropped.
I went to the corner store.
The neighbors spoke coded
like they didn’t recognize me,
avoiding some unsavory topic,
avoiding this flood, this substance.
They were looking unwashed.
The water was stale and drying
but those looks would stay
waterlogged many months yet.
I learned all I could here
but then the sheet metal started flying.
The Korean dirtbag was with fake atticus
smoking bones on the levee.
They’re trying to touch the storm surge.
The waves pushed them lateral
like the blades of a bulldozer.
No one had seen them.
I remember the light kicked out
the walls making like
they were trying to slam down,
the mantle wanted to
slow boogie with your portraits
We lived on the highground
above the bowl.
I punched a man for
talking to me about god and luck
Waiting for more in the static
on the offbrand scanners.
Gumbo was putting what they had left in the family van.
She said they were headed for Houston.
Someone had a radio going
but no batteries.
The cops set up at the school
but no one wanted to go
unless somebody started shooting.