The Great Big City Flood | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Hudson Valley; Chronogram
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The Great Big City Flood 

In these empty streets
a snake presses all

its muscles down
like springs for the strike.

You couldn’t call
your sister if your life

depended on it. Or
your brother. The phones

are down. Behind doors,
favors are done, favors

not proper for God
or newspaper to see.

What is worth the theft
of a baby’s first step?

Water can still be boiled
at this new altitude.

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