By ED MEEK
The ocean laps the streets with its tongue.
Our feet wet as cement.
Termites of salt eat the roads.
Nevertheless, we keep our heads up.
Don’t pay it any mind, everyone says.
We drive SUVs for the clearance,
water running underneath like mice.
It streams into driveways
and seeps into basements,
soaking carpets till they smell
like cats caught in the rain.
As long as we can drive, we’ll be ok, you say.
I say we will learn to swim with the fishes.
We will return to the sea
where we’ll arrange our funerals.
Ed Meek is the author of Luck, short stories, and Spy Pond, poems. He writes book reviews for The Arts Fuse. He has poems out now in Chronogram, The Aurorean, Connecticut Poetry Review, and Ekphrastic.net. Follow him on Twitter @emeek.