It sits hollow near the sand
washed up the road where the
other houses look like waddling waders, maybe
clamming, maybe just enjoying the wet.
Old Bill built his bungalow back
in the teens when high tide was still a half-mile out.
Didn’t want the waves to keep
him awake at night, he said.
But still, he walked to the water
every day. He was pushing eighty
when the realization hit him
like a sack of wet mice.
It wasn’t so far to walk now.
Those Antarctic ice sheets must
really be filling up the big tub.
When he clutched his chest
and went to his knees going
out the front door that fine July
morning, his last thought as he
rolled to his back on the
porch where he loved to listen:
At least I didn’t drown.
(water house: worth1000.com; Sandy damage: insurancejournal.com)