BEFORE THE STORM

Shut
tight the
windows
that they
don’t bang, bring
in the patio chairs, shrug
off the words of those
naysayers, prepare for the clatter
and clang. Drag the china hutch
against the door, secure it with the couch,
sacrifice the fine decor, let the rooftop
slouch. Backstock the pantries with dried-
goods, ration out your water, don’t stop to
think of splintered wood or human cannon
fodder. Initiate the quarantine and automate
the lockdown. Katrina, Sandy, then Irene,
who next will let their frock down. Power on
the generator, military bought, park the
cars on some higher
ground or rooftop
parking lot. Send
out a distress
signal in
thirteen
different
languages, remember you’ll still have
your faith no matter what the
damage is. Tape the first video
for your survival log, tell
whatever human population
is left not to be agog. Life
was not too bad until the
tempest came, then out it went,
through the vent and down into the
drain. The destruction, the ruins, the
gore, the wreckage, the flooding,
the fires, the riots. The
shantytowns and raft-
communes and hollowed-out
Grand-Hyatts. LA looked like
the Rio Grande and New York
just like the Seine, we lost all our
hopes of being dry ever
again. But look
at that, it’s letting
up and kids are out to
play. The sky is clear,
the sun is out, it’s
kind of the perfect
day. What do I do with all
this fear, my emergency
water and gas? I guess I’ll hold a big cook-
out, now that the storm has passed.