City Refugees
It is upon me now—the Virus.
I didn’t see it coming, didn’t
plan as well as I might have.
Others say they saw the signs,
but they really didn’t.

Might I leave the city?

Reporters and politicians, doctors
and scientists lecture me, from
pulpits deep inside my laptop,
‘we are all in this together’.

Are we?

Many sent their families away, to
upstate New York or the Hamptons,
second homes in which to hide.

Hide from whom?

Seattle wealthy ran to the Cascades,
San Juans, and north Idaho, struggle
for scarce supplies with off-the-grid
preppers prepared for the apocalypse.

Am I prepared for cabin life?

A creed of survivalists. Hidden in
dimly lit cabins, dressed in camo,
carbines across their knees—the
bible lights their path. They pray
for salvation from transgressors.

Shall I hike the final distance in dim light?

No welcome wagon for city interlopers.
A reclusive order of closed minds and
deep-seated hatred for the rich,
reminiscent of the third estate.

Can I pass through closed minds unobserved?

Hilltop camps watch over city refugees
through rifle scopes and night vision
goggles. Watch them struggle against
the elements—watch them die. And
raid their camps once they perish.

Am I up to the life struggle?

I read my bible as darkness falls,
long gun across my lap, pistol
holstered, knife strapped to ankle.

Sun sets over the mountains, purple
and orange reflected on the lake surface.
It is the peace that drew me here.

Another night settles in, I listen for
the sound of voices, a snapped twig,
gravel kicked by boots on my driveway.

And I cradle my gun.