Last night, I could not sleep
There was a bag by the door, my hospital go-bag.
It’s been waiting for months, because of Covid.
It was joined by a new bag.
The evacuations were only two towns over, and I had to be ready to leave.
My phone was beside me, left on.
But I couldn’t sleep, because I was afraid I wouldn’t hear it.
There was already ash in my mouth, smoke in my already weakened lungs.
If I slept, how soon before the fire was at the door?
I thought about what would happen if I had to grab one of the bags.
About how the President would never hear my name, just a number about evacuees or the dead someone would try to get him to listen to while he was golfing, tweeting about tires, embracing QAnon, retweeting racists, wishing pedophiles well, testing out new words to call Kamala, blaming California for being in a drought, a heat wave, and a lightening storm all at once, wishing the citizens who live here ill.
