Herons

On occasion the river would come up to our door -
Every cul de sac an island within an island
And we would wait for it to recede
While the herons took the street.
Years later I would find myself barefoot and drenched beneath the Coney Island pier,
The night’s violet clouds a damask curtain under the influence of the night’s choice of psychedelic.
Tourists in ponchos, panicking and fleeing as the wind rises.
What, you fuckers never seen a hurricane before?
Geez.
Guess I better head back, it’s not like I can get any wetter.

Milo Wissig (he/him) — small paintings, long [th]reads, trans rites, OSHA violations. More work: Patreon | Website | Instagram | Substack