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 rise,
stalk their unwitting prey.
The boot strap cracks widen,
threaten to breech the dam,
to drown us in post-disaster anarchy.
As the red waters fill our basements
and soak our carpets
we retreat to the rooftops
throwing 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.

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

©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur