The storm wasn’t as bad as originally feared---
When the feral purple spiral bruise
Swirled slowly north on video maps on the TV news.
The Gold Coast of the Gulf side was relatively spared.
The affluent had all fled to landlocked luxury hotels
(and drank vodka cranberry cocktails)
(and Facebooked pictures of their travails)
While the “less fortunate” bailed water from mobile homes.
Waded dazed where streets used to be, clutching dead flip phones
Certain people always describe these things as a “blessing”
The way it all “works out in the end”
Anointing dumb luck
With God’s personal touch
While all the rest are just plain fucked
As if God chooses when to tilt
The odds in your favor,
Load the dice and become your savior.
Send down the wind and rain
Flood the plains, wash away your guilt.
It dawns on the privileged
Just before the roast duck is served
(The uncorked wine a rare vintage).
The Patriarch reframes the gilded opulence
As a gift from God, a gentle reminder
To bow our heads, to accept material prominence
Let us pray:
We are all blessed, the patriarch will say
Bless our beautiful beachside home
Bless our talents and skills, our collective health
Bless you all, bless our long sought wealth
And no one deigns to query (like an asshole):
Where was this god when a child was blown to bits in Yemen,
When another was orphaned by the events of 9/11?
The storm will pass, retreat from bayside mansions
(For the rest, the seas remain ever high)
They make a tally of the damage done:
A couple of window screens smashed
Palm fronds scattered across the lush Bermuda grass
Protective canvas torn from the boat lolling in the sun
But the dock itself unharmed, steadied by stanchions.
Let’s post a picture of old dad on a ladder;
Look at him, how cute with his hammer,
Everything again made right.
Scrolling through, I can't help but click “like”