There are some people who will outlive cockroaches;
you are not one of them.
There are others who will have an allergic reaction,
and others who will climb out their bedroom window
to sit on the roof of their house
and wait for the moon to disappear into a bloodshot sky.  

You might press your hand against the cold cement floor
or fall off of the top bunk and wonder why the smell
of the river is everywhere now.  

It wouldn’t make a difference if I sat outside your jail cell
and waited or if you try to run from the prison yard
that’s on the side of a mountain;
not only will the guards aim for your head,
but you’ll have nowhere to go
because everything is under water.  

You are afraid of the Mexican gang and I’m afraid
of the men who are gliding by in rowboats
trying to find out if any kids drowned in the river
that swallowed their houses.