Instead of a Poem
Hurrying on the evacuation route
I fling it
one line at a time, snippets
not big enough to make a pup tent with.
Where’ll I live now?
I want to stay on here.
But this hut’s smoking,
a flammable of tongue and type
could torch my sanctuary,
my equity and hiding-place.
It was no house for doors,
I grant. I went out, sure,
but who could get inside?
Still, it was home.
Nothing to cry about.
More arsonists, like me,
are looking back,
too hooked to cut and run,
finding themselves nailed to the spot,
their domed feet blank
in saline desert tracks.
Page(s) 45
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