After the Hurricane, Coney Island

She could read the news report all day and does. Each hour
is disastrous. We sicken of it, shoot up and kill time, watch
ourselves becoming done on nightly news. Roads wash out.
The front of a building collapses, exposing whole lives,
couches intact. They said the ocean would rise and it does, spilling
into cities that we thought would always stay the same even as we
dream of change each night. The sea rushed in and left in its wake drowned
dolls, unpaired shoes, drifts of sand and drowning fish, a soggy stuffed
animal missing one button eye. I come undone. The flood.
Reshifted cars parked on the street. Upended SUVs and
propped them up on city-issued mailboxes like toys. A man says
get the fuck out of here and I know he talking to her, the girl
on the nice silver bike. This is a silver screen spook show.
On a street corner next to the projects: an oversized hand, mummified,
gnarled. A statue of Frankenstein somewhere is missing his, and by
walks the Virgin Mary, life-sized, washed down the street from her post
at the church, chipped and briny in the hands of men in hoods and jeans.
This is not a dream. You've been submerged in yours since this started, always affected
by weather. This is not your tragedy. Take off your dark clothes.  Stay awhile.
Let your messages rot, the radio waves jammed into mush as we keep
in touch. Even the air is flooded. Take off your jacket, stay awhile.
Another day, another disaster. Take off your dark clothes. You won't miss a thing.