FLOODWATER BLUES
The pounding rain started and came down
Relentlessly, continuously, day after day,
From chilly, damp morning till bitter, drenched night.
My roof leaked rhythmically
Into pails I had set to catch the doleful drumbeats.
I had lost track of how many days
Cassandra, the TV weathercaster,
Had told us to look for sunny tomorrows.
No one believed her anymore.
My rubber boots squeaked on the stairs
Down to my flooded basement
Where the sewer had backed up.
The stench assaulted my nostrils
Like a wild animal in fear or pain.
And as I stepped into ankle-deep water,
A small turd floated by my left boot.
Gross.
So unbelieveably gross.
I squeezed my eyes shut,
Unwilling to accept any more,
And it was then that I saw you,
Deep within my mind's eye.
You sat on a black, jagged rock by the sea,
With the breakers pitching their white foam toward you
And with roiling steel-grey clouds to match the waters,
Restless and troubled.
Your head was bowed toward your thighs,
Your face covered by your hands.
Looking more closely,
I saw your shoulders shaking,
And listening more closely,
I heard your wails mingled with the furious wind.
Each of your sobs tore into my own heart.
I stepped toward you
To sit beside you,
To hold you gently,
To stroke your blond curls,
To comfort you.
What could I do for you, Apollo?
What had happened?
And then, suddenly, my eyes opened,
And I saw the forthcoming work of clean-up
For both of us.
And in the next few days,
As the sun came out and the world dried up,
I learned of Cassandra's sudden departure
From her TV world of lies
While large fans and disinfectant
Chased the grossness out of my house.
So now, what could I do for you, Apollo?
I sat on the front porch,
And poured a glass of frothy, golden beer
To drink
For both of us.
--Phoebe 2002
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