We stood on the banks of
I-45 that had turned into
a river
with tops of flooded cars that seemed to
float along like lily pads.
Those of us with
cars still working had
spent the morning
tracing the shape we were
trapped in. Came
back like scouts to
share our findings.
Heights cut off from Montrose.
Bayous filled to brims and
beyond. Here Be
Alligator Gars.
Those of us caught on the
wrong sides of these bayous will
spend the night on the futon.
Those of us who host will
suddenly remember the jigsaw
puzzle—where it's stored and how
we sort its pieces, sit together in
concentration and tolerate the heat.
One of us wheeled out a
cart and sold
corn on a stick.
Soft butter, sour cream, flecks of
pulverized peppers.
Another of us wished that he'd
thought of it first. Resolved to sell
burgers next hurricane.
We milled around on
muddy grass. Held off heading
back to the canned goods and
borrowed beds. A few of us were
still in shock. But most were
laughing and chatting. Flirting with the
passersby. Or on the phone with
others of us. Making plans for
next time. Or next day. Or
points to be determined in
our future.