Hurricane

All it takes is a trip to the beach to remember

a few green waves against a cloudy sky,

a yacht spanning the background, and suddenly

the x-shaped patterns of a beach house fence,

an old swing set in a clearing in the woods,

rickety and white against the trees,

and an entire bucket of fudge-ripple ice cream,

eaten because the power’s going to go out anyway,

are all I can see.

Back then the beach meant freedom,

but now it just reminds me of growing up.

They say the air in New Orleans is different now,

after 2005, at least to those who remember,

but I still think that innocence is wind blowing at the sand dunes,

a hurricane gathering

as you tell me

we all die eventually.