A hurricane is coming.
People behave as if they were members of an ant colony
Industriously hauling water, batteries, duct tape, condoms, and Cheerios.
Unlike the ants, they are not cooperative;
The rise of the wind is commensurate with the level of greed.
All the fresh water is gone already and it is only 2PM.
By 5 PM there are barricades in front of the A & P.
The ant people have adopted military dress and are bayoneting steel belted radials
The queen ant is directing the sand bag people
Who are erecting a barrier between Greenwich and Port Chester.
All the mid level ant people are instructed to remain in the center of the lot
And await being chosen.
(Just like dancing class, but no white gloves).
George Bush has declared a state of emergency
And organized a foot race for all presidential candidates
From Washington to New York.
Is told he is not right for the part.
As the hurricane crawls up the coast
George crawls under the table in the White House kitchen,
Looking for plutonium.
Laura tells him he traded it to Tony last month
For some toy soldiers.
The axis of the world has shifted
As if someone hit us on our heads and
Our eyes can’t refocus.
We are all walking sideways.
Our perspective is so short.
We have let go of hope and its golden rope of sunset.
Our desolation is in our bodies.
Our souls have been eaten already.