There’s always the running,
a destination of safety,
planes or lifeboats or higher ground.
A close call as the disaster approaches,
before they
(and we)
triumph over nature,
avoid the projected cataclysm,
as long as we have love and family and hope
and Twizzlers
at our fingertips.
We marvel at the graphically generated flood
that crests Himalayan mountaintops,
watch in awe as the 3D meteor
irradiates sea water,
sending skyscraper tidal waves
toward unsuspecting cities.
The volcano explodes,
painting the screen,
rivers of flame pouring
through quaint suburban neighborhoods
and we cheer it,
rattling our ice-filled cups
and grinning with kernel-laced teeth.
And last night,
on a much smaller screen,
the celebrity designer was in tears.
He said that it was like swimming
in a soup of lifeless bodies
and babies,
that the smell stays with him,
that his lover was lost so suddenly.
A black river breeches its banks,
spilling into a car park,
and tosses yachts into highway overpasses.
People in the distance flee too slowly,
and inevitable prediction takes over,
as the amateur videographer
shifts his shaky frame.
Bloated corpses wash up for months,
the tsunami’s only concession,
and the Pacific Rim
is littered with the taken dead.
There is no second act
as the waters run their course,
and the ark they needed
does not exist
outside the now ruined theaters.
