Atlantis Rising

We live on the coast,
where it floods each time
a hard rain falls—

Streets turn into rivers,
rivers push past front doors,
enter through garages and mews.

At such times, a boat or kayak
comes in handy. So when they read
the news about the imminence of ice

melting far up north,
at the pole, the locals shrug:
the whole planet’s self-winding.

The clock’s set to alarm. Come
shuck an oyster, raise a glass
topped off with foam.

We’ll all put our bones to bed one
way or another— salt marsh,
wet clay, turf, ocean floor.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.