Category Five - Direct Hit

  
A nail from a  
missing shingle    
caught my    
leggings    
as I watched the    
bloated carcass    
of my neighbor’s dog  
drift past    
the rain gutters.    
   
I could hear survivor    
cries in the distance    
and I added my    
voice to theirs    
in some vain    
hope that    
helicopter    
salvation,  
was real.    
   
Beneath my cold    
wet,  
shoeless,    
body    
lies the    
sodden    
remains of    
a life.    
   
My grandpa’s ashes    
bobbing in the living room,    
the linens I’d gotten    
on sale,  
and the    
shoes I didn’t,    
the couch I hated,     
the pans    
I never used,    
my cat’s    
food dishes…    
   
The life.    
For whatever it was worth.    
My life.    
Caught in the riptide  
behind my front door.  
   
I stop yelling for help    
and watch the water
creep closer.    
   
Too heartsick    
to feel more    
than a vague    
desire to
drown    
quickly;    
   
a vague desire
that I wouldn’t tread    
water and struggle;    
that when it washed    
over me  
I wouldn’t fight the    
damn good fight,    
eyes open,    
struggling for    
strength and breath,    
   
that I’d just  
   
let  
   
go.    
   
The rain stopped;    
it always does.    
   
But the danger  
isn’t in the rain    
   
it’s the flood waters.    
   
And they’re still rising.