The city fell apart when I was busy selling Kleenex

or, rather, attending a conference where they taught us how to sell.

I first saw the footage on the TV in my hotel suite

While slipping on flip-flops for the company's Caribbean Bash.

On the flight back home, the attendant asked

If I had family in the city, if they were all okay.

I told her they were fine, that the kids were with their grandma –

I don't have kids, Mom's been gone – but she bought the story.

The taxi driver took me as far as he could

but finally had to drop me at the edge of the barricade.

I tipped him, grabbed my travel bag, and stepped out

onto the street where the relief workers were waving us back.

Streets cracked and severed, concrete jutting upward –

The quake had no regard for the price of the homes.

Off to my left, there was what used to be a swing set

tipped over on a dog house, its resident inside.


My house, I couldn't see it, but I pictured it. Dang.

The roof of the garage collapsed on my cars –

The newly-installed windows, now just glass on the floor–

The pool, if not destroyed, full of garbage and dirt –

A woman down the street screamed that she couldn't find her baby.

She was crying.

I got a thought, unzipped my bag.

As a police officer led the woman to the curb

I pulled out the boxes of Kleenex.

This is the perfect time to sell.