After the Storm

I step out the door. It’s 8:07.
The golden sun – a scorned child begging permission to return –
Peers over the torn rooftops.
The front page of the New York Times,
Far from its birthplace, rustles across
The street, hiding, lest chaos should break out again.
Near silence rules the world with a stony hand
As I step onto the sidewalk and pause. Alone among
The wreckage of humanity—a battle waged
To decide who held the power—
Nature to oppose or man to repel,
And still no victor is seen.
Brown water snakes over the filthy pavement
As I pass the gas station, now empty,
Which had opened its doors, not one week ago,
Confident that business would continue as it had,
Unending. Half-drunk, a bottle of Pepsi perches
In a bush near Karen’s house, her house which now
Looks out on the street with emotionless eyes,
Closed from within – offering no clue, no sympathy,
And no word of prophecy for what is to come.


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