How can one stand at the window and turn away while locking the shade safely,
Who can lock the doors
as the waters rise,
while wiping the good words from sculpted lips
with a fine and flawless linen cloth?
What cold flint has replaced the soul
that can calculate the carpet cleaning bill and the AntiVogue photo op,
and deem it more salvageable,
than a last breath,
a desperate shiver?
And how do you face your god,
without punching through the glass
and wanting to shatter
the inhumanity staring back at you?
Who can lock the doors,
how do you lock your doors,
as the waters keep rising….