I built a city last week

Cars like collectible rings, twenty on each hand.

Little people staring up in confusion, little conversations too.

My apartment sunk into the seaside.

I watched it erode into the face of a smile in the sand.

Children raced, sweat and all, pointing at the sight.

All the lights snuck behind the electrical wiring.

A tsunami visited the shore, roughly shaking its hand.

Children slew, sweat and all, like a basket of beads drops to the ground.

—it was almost in slow motion.

One light persisted, its flicker of light fighting for air.

A coastal home with my name glazed on the windows.

Peering inside, my mother was cooking like a famous chef.

She was laughing at the chaos of it all, it did not shake her.

So, I sat with a book and a pen, covering the entire beach.

We lit up the entire city.

Just a mother, her son and a tsunami.