At ten am I read an article in the Times
about an island community in the Philippines
and its battle with the effects of climate change.
The island’s inhabitants have given up on area rugs;
they tie their food down when waters begin to rise;
and the goats and even the cats have learned to swim.
At noon I ingest precisely 1.5 grams of psilocybin
and dream the apartment is filling with water.
It seeps up from the floorboards
and soils the faux-Oriental rug.
It overturns the slate gray ottoman.
The water rises fast.
Too late to tie the food down
and what does that mean anyway?
How do you tie food down?
I suppose it’s in buckets.
Just then the smaller cat floats by
on a peasant round of 7-grain bread.
She’s being lead by the bigger cat,
who’s headed toward the front door.
He looks at me over his shoulder,
as if to say, “I got this. Follow me.”