W.F. ROBY

JUST BEFORE THE DESTRUCTION OF SABINE PASS, TEXAS


Mom was working on another batch
of hot water high in the window
where the generator could reach.

Rita's west band was barely visible
making light in the direction
of the beach. Dad was in Virginia,
pressing buttons on his cellular
as though it would make
a difference. I was tacking plywood
to the windows for the same reason.

Then a voice came over the radio
telling us to write our social security numbers
in permanent ink on our left arms. The dogs
were turning circles. Nobody moved.

W.F. Roby works as a freelance writer in Texas. His poems have appeared in print and online at Melic Review, GW Review, three candles, and others. He is learning to count cards.