The slant of this roof makes it damn hard to hold I’m hot and hungry and tired and if the human body is made of 80 percent water then how the hell did 80 percent of everybody’s water in this goddamned city spill out into the street but I’m not gonna let mine become part of this stinking sewage rushing past like an overflowed toilet with chunks of neighbors and strangers sweeping by in a stench filled river of brown and red broiling in the sun like pieces of po’ boy meat from a Mama Crawford sandwich clinging above a car not a freakin’ boat I owe 16 months of payments turned into a submarine parked twenty feet from the filthy welcome mat in front of this burning roof of hot tar with finger blisters scratching into melting black so a helicopter or battleship or angel will pluck me off this homeowner’s nightmare cause the water’s rising like a clogged commode so where the hell are the goddamned plumbers and why does the water feel cool on my feet and if you can’t send a helicopter how bout a lousy cloud to slap across that smart ass sun trying to cremate me and shove me into this sea of shit staining my ankles rubbing against bone pushing and pulling to flush me away like Mardi Gras vomit but I don’t belong here seduced by bonuses and French Quarter boners they moved me so I could help them steal from the poor bastards turned into gator buffet and what the hell kind of snake can swim in this shit and why the fuck is it swimming towards me.

Mark Blickley is a widely published author of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and drama. He lives in New York City and is a member of PEN American Center.