Flooding

Millions of poems have already been written by mosquitoes buzzing about our ears. They have been written between the lines of graffiti inside our bathroom stalls. The poems I write next will rival those. Mine will blow through town like maple leaves. They’ll be carried along telephone lines. They’ll be washed into sewers and float down streams. They’ll be used as packing material for care packages and museum artifacts. Everyone who can’t be clearly heard will be thought to be reciting my poems. People huddled against a storm will hear my verses in the ravages of wind. Trees falling alone in the jungle will spell out my songs with broken limbs. People will try to remember what they heard when vases smash on wooden floors, when dogs dream, when cats caterwaul, when old demented men mutter in passing, and when babies babble, because these will be reminders of my poems.