Will we know when

to run? When the joke dictator

gets re-elected. House in fire-threat

come August and under

water by November—bomb cyclone.

I’ve practiced leaving.

Kept cardboard banker boxes

closet-stacked and the classic four-fold

pressed between washing machine

and wall. I’ve made lists

of what I’ll get rid of

like a game of crazy eights

stacking cards discarding

diamonds. The summer

subletter poured bleach

into the soil to kill

the grass rather than water it

in our absence. We planted a garden

upon return—lettuce greens

mint and marigolds I watch now

stubborn shoots breaking frosted ground

and the wandering jay beak-piercing

past the toxic overlay resurfacing

with a meaty seed.