Earthquakes and floods

"The nuclear plant might explode - what are we to do?"

Well, maybe we'll watch the news on our flatscreen TVs

from our dens, mugs of coffee in our hands,

praying. For the victims, yes.

The ones clinging to the rungs of palm trees

or the ones turning up large rocks to look for

lost sisters,

dead children.

We'll pray fervently. Dear God,

save them.

And then we'll smile secretly and whisper,

though we won't admit it, not even to ourselves,

Poor bastards. Thank goodness I'm not there.

Because the couch is warm, and the coffee is hot,

and we gaze at swirling waters and floating carnage

through bars,

like we would exotic animals in a cage,

knowing that it is only safe to do so because there are

hundreds of miles of stormy oceans

and strange lands and vast continents

between us and them,

the ones we send haphazard prayers to.

We're safe.

Sideline spectators.

There's a name for our role. We look upon disaster

with the same half-interested bemusement

as if we were watching a mildly interesting movie

narrated by whitened teeth and straightened hair,

knowing that in a few days,

we won't be grieving for people we don't know,

we won't be praying over foreign corpses,

and when we've seen waves snap bridges and wash over cars

for the tenth time, we'll stop watching

because it won't be so interesting anymore.

We'll make toast for breakfast

and think about the weather

and how much gas costs

and hope that they can clean up debris

in time for our next vacation.

Because when it all comes down to it,

we, the living, know nothing of death.

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3/12/11- A graphical illustration done by my dear friend, N.