Living on a flood plain

Some days it drizzles – 
a black man's tail light fails him,
a toddler finds daddy's new toy.
Some days it pours – 
the music stops pulsing for late night dancers,
revelers storm the Bastille for the last time.

But every day the waters inch higher,
the boot strap cracks widen,
threatening to overwhelm the dam
that holds back the reservoir,
seeking to drown us in post-disaster anarchy.

As the red waters fill our basements
and soak our carpets
we retreat to the rooftops
throwing accusatory daggers with one breath – 
someone must be at fault, after all,
someone must pay – 
and in the next desperately calling help, help
as we wait for the helicopters and rescue boats
that never seem to come.

The Starcraft stored in the garage,
upon whose bow, in our Christian piety,
we had proudly painted its name: The Golden Rule,
used once or twice
and put away,
a forgotten gift.

©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur