Page 20 - Packing for the Apocalypse

HIGH LOW
POEM 9
When it happens, the ping, the call, the bang on the door, The Get out now! The first, very first thing you do is stop. Feel the rush. Feel the ground under your feet. Then, Go.
Erase everything in the mind but the sequences of events That must follow: keys, cash, cat. The Go Bags. Cameras Hard drives. Papers. Flute. Clothes? No time. Photos? No Time. No. No time. Should have thought of that before.
It’s surprisingly cold, this moment. A woman I know had Time to get her wallet and her dog. She waited three days To learn her house had burned. She had just moved there. It was the perfect retirement spot: forest, view of the hills.
Now, her wooded retreat, most of the neighborhood, gone. This one started small, this fire. Twenty acres. They should Put it out right away, shouldn’t they? We got the call at four, In the dark, deep in sleep. Three times the ping. Deer Park.
Oh no. Not again. It’s just up the road. Up in the hills. Lovely. Friends around. Beautiful parties. California elegance. Life. Living with nature. Trees all around. Birds, foxes, deer, bob- Cats. Creatures, shy, silent, watching your every move. Wild.
Everything is temporary. The sudden pounding in the heart Proclaims your own fragility. Fear. Deep, deep in your inner Workings, the dread of ending. Your life. And all you see, all You love. The great, living tapestry of creation in its beauty.
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