Currents

It’s two in the morning.

The flood on the screen is a loop,

a brown river eating a street

I will never walk down.

The man in the yellow coat

is talking about the cresting,

but the volume is down to a hum.

In my mug, the tea has gone cold,

a skin of oil on the surface

catching the red flicker

of the scroll at the bottom.

Lives are ending in a crawl of text.