Abandoned House 2 Years Later

A poet lived here.

He sat at this desk
read these books
hid tomes about O.J. Simpson
underneath the landing
to keep the taint of his sister’s misguided gift
from corrupting his Hemingway.
Nobody understood that his books were as precious
as his baby daughter who watched him
from her crib by the open window.

He looked out this window.
watched the rain’s apologetic sobs splatter
the panes.
Tried not to write a poem titled “Rain”.
Tried not to write about how he was scared.
Fathers aren’t supposed to be scared
(even if they are lonely
because their wives left them to find real work
above sea level).
His baby girl was crying
because she just dropped her doll outside her window
and Baby was drowning.

A poet had to grab his child
leave his books behind in the storm
to stand on his rooftop with floodwaves
soaking his shoes,
while comforting his baby girl
who was still crying
because Baby was drowning.

And as he climbed into a government-issue boat
Brought to you by your neighborhood friendly
war distracted temporary disaster relief effort.
He tried to forget that his library
was dead.
For his little girl was still crying
because Baby was drowning.