The ark has disappeared as we stand on the roofs of our
submerged Costcos, diapers and dog food bobbing about us
in bulk, the sky backlit by flames in the distant hills.
Babies in arms, we will be scanning for boats, old-style,
no GPS, the only place to stand where we are, squinting
against the glare, skin itching from tainted water.
We are the naysayers wanting to drive, water our lawns,
air condition, upgrade, happy as long as there was Wi-Fi
to keep us tucked snug in our virtual landscapes.
Now, this is it. We are the zombies come from our own
screens, arms reaching from our dwindling real estate,
faces green at the knowledge of what we have become.
Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, OR. Her work has appeared before in TheNewVerse.News. She always scans the sky for portents.
