Before the Flood

Rob MacDonald

I know that a storm is approaching
because the sky has gone apeshit;

the hotel pool is all mine
thanks to the impending apocalypse.

No brothers Marco-Poloing,
no People magazine readers—

I can practice the dead man's float
without wondering who might

call 911, who might simply
say I'm too old for these things.

Lightning cracks an axe
through a nearby palm

as I practice my handstands.
Of course, someone is up there,

staring down
from a balcony,

wrapped in a robe,
arms folded.