Sewage Flood Poem
Why would the sewage flood
be after the trashcans as well as us?
Why would your sister get a house
with an uneven floor,
sending cat toys downhill to the bathroom?
If she does, I’m getting a zip line to your roof,
and you can have all my CDs (I don’t need them).
There’s this heart surgery center
that’s open only Monday through Wednesday,
so we can hide in the bushes,
leafscaped like some Medicare plaza,
where gypsies are banned
and are identified quickly by camera.
The city is offering a ten-dollar redemption
on homeless people’s heads.
My waterbed is drained thanks to you,
and your parents somehow survived
by making paper with some medieval technique
(and the occasional shift at the brewing supply).
At the end we were put in charge or growing food
for the prison full of nearly-diseased survivors,
but we kept trying to grow bread,
and the crop just never took root;
now we’re staring back, saying sorry,
and reluctantly killing the last of the strays.