In a cold, rented house,
water pours from her ceiling. She weeps prayers to Allah
while a company man
tells her she’ll need a spigot
to measure the pressure of the water
pouring through her light fittings
so he can assess how to respond
to her request for help.

She’s unable to call for help,
all contacts washed away
by the tossed sea-crossing,
she feels her life ebb,
slip its flimsy mooring.
Later, in a homeless shelter
she lingers by the window,
sees runnels of rain-water
dislodge leaves and insects,
nature uprooting itself.
Outside, a sandwich-board man
stands his apocalyptic ground
Sunday shoes solidly planted on
red, white and blue, implacable
in his black-letter call
to Repent, Repent, Repent

To her,
his revelation of fire and floods
of wars, plague and pestilence
is yesterday’s news.