We know the drill: Plywood cut to sills
to cover glass, bolted, battened down

to face the worst winds of a decade,
supercells spun inland from the sea.

Each hurricane worse than the last—
all housing temporary, piles

of hurled debris, browned brush,
decapitated palms a permanent part of the landscape

planted by an association of deniers
whose heads may be buried

in the eroding dunes. What’s left of them,
of us, is shaken, wonders if rebuilding was a mistake.

A few in the complex were blown out,
though most losses were superficial:

pool fencing bent or broken,
mild water intrusion through soffit vents,

a few slate roof tiles askew.
We’ll come back, our guard said,

could have been worse, we lived to tell the story—
and handed us our keys.

Some of those blacked-out for days
made do with candlelight. Others discovered

how much brighter the stars appeared
in the darker nights.