Flood waters rise, dams leak

cemeteries give up their dead.

Do you see the long-buried coffins

floating down Main Street

even time cannot hold the departed.

Bones of Smith and Jones drift boxed

pass the (flooded) coffee shop,

maybe they want to return

to this place again,

where misery increases

as the Tar River abandons its erased edges.

Work crews torch piles of pigs,

sending plumes of wood-hog smoke up

in clouds, to pose the question

who will come to this

Southern Pig Pickin’, while

the natives all stand stranded on roofs.

How do you bury the dead

when the ground won’t allow it,

when it won’t even show itself,

when the once hard surface

is drowning in water

and will hold nothing down.

See the pigs floating, the chickens too,

see the bodies, now where is that ark.