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.
[LAG-signature date=”09 07 2013″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2013/09/159123415/”]