Hurricane Rita

I will stand your ground
when the water comes
and our ship comes in to moor
where the porch used to be.

While I'm up here I'll inspect
the seams of the ceiling where
the roof pitches and folds down
like a book face down and open,
saving an empty seat, in another hour
I'll be crawling
along the shingles,
waving red rags
to helicopters,
wishing I had fixed those leaks
and thrown out all my long playing records.

Photos and furniture
catch the black water
to the intersection
where dead traffic lights vanish
under the brackish bubbling
of foul tides and trends,

Tonight there's a full moon over the Lone Star state
and clouds full of fury
remember nothing of the Alamo because
even our monuments are in the way and must go
to some other place we'll find
as we draw new maps
for an old , wet planet.