Brush Creek Flood

strong winds pushed cottonwoods
to their limits, soft branches touched
by strength, busted, broken
by the howling.

creek rises, then speeds over rocks,
campfires from Plaza hoboes
singe the blackened sky
with bright
bursts, cinders aflame
swoop
down sidewalks, scaring horses
and tipping carriages full
of lovers smooching the evening
away, licking earlobes as
limbs flail and nickel-sized
hail pounces
on Greek statues, shined up
for Easter Sunday and the rabbits,
come out to play for sunshine models in bikinis.

no one hears the rush of water
sidling up to doorways,
swirling down stairs into lush
basements where trousers linger
at the toilets, big meals plunged
and flushed, while cold water oozes
into pants pockets, freeing dollar
bills meant for tips.

stunned Plaza cops dip into rhythm,
chanting numbers, singing to dispatchers
listening into earphones while
their computers hum a song of confusion:
six people washed away,
stuck under bridges, while juicy rats tumble
from hiding places abandoned for safety,
each slimy rodent confused
by waters racing over potholes, and church mice praying
for deliverance, no mean alley cats
waiting, but hell beckoning them
to sing, their meek voices chirping
surrender.