A Cantaros

The water washed down on us in buckets
bubbling and boiling in the walls
where we popped them like blisters

It overran the concrete –
water flowed up from the grates,
an exodus from the sewers.

The world was simply drenched
and trickles soon became oceans,
the forests now the everglades

A banana yellow canoe
floated away downstream
out in the flooding church pond,
Huck and Jim on the New Mississippi

The boy looked stoic in his splotchy olive coat
and his black cap
as the world hailed at him

And his father reclined on the leather
watching the Weather Channel blather on.
“It’s raining,” they explained.

An apple blossom sat delicately
upon the windshield,
where it evoked a thin smile and
a pang of despair

Then those scarlet lips were
flicked away by a distracted wiper,
and the world seemed to erode away from me.