A Poem

The Big Easy

Tired and sad,
but no wiser for the wear.
I spent the night
skimming the shallows
of reason and meaning,
searching for answers,
but came up with only
blood-drawn question marks
before drifting off in the
current of sleep.

I dreamed I seine-fished
the streets of Tulsa
with a chicken-wire net.
On South Peoria, I dredged up
a rotted oak branch,
the orange and white sign
from an A&W stand,
a thirty-four year-old mother
with brown, floating hair,
and some drowned child’s lunch box—
on the lid, the rusting image of the Hulk,
that icon of rage unleashed, unrestrained.

In the distance,
the boiling green fury of the clouds
passed on.

I went north—
at times wading,
at times swimming—
past half-submerged
bistros and boutiques
on Cherry Street,
then came to a man,
clean and dry,
standing alone on a quiet
expressway overpass.
His voice echoed off the
surface of the sunken city
as he preached a heaven
with no floods,
no killer waves from the sea,
no home-shattering earthquakes,
no burning forests or rolling lava.
And while he spoke,
a wet and weary cat
fought the current,
howled and scratched at
a concrete pillar, then
sank into the water
at the preacher’s feet.

I woke
to the usual unheard screams
from dying, choking throats.
Millions still starving in Africa.
Thousands still bleeding in Sudan.
Now hundreds drowning
in New Orleans.
Will this bring the fire back
to our bones?
Will our words fork lightning
after this?
Will the hands and feet of Christ
be tireless?
Or will we barely rouse
at this passing storm,
only to sink back down
into our lives of ease and
continue our slouch
toward New Jerusalem?

-Mike Snyder