Inundated

What tides move in him? At what watermark

did survival instinct kick in? How much water

is too high for wading? At what pitch

of a baby’s cry does the father think diapers,

food, instead of too deep, too much wind? On film

his trudge out of the French Quarter Walgreens

will be labeled “LOOTING,” his visage, gait

indistinguishable (to the casual viewer)

from people clutching stereos, sneakers, alcohol,

any item the newsroom seems to suggest

black people grab first. But look closely:

see Huggies under his right arm, gallon of milk

gripped in his left hand. Who can know his story?

Who wouldn’t grab a 12-pack, if the bad day

that sends you to Scotch on a Tuesday

were strung together for months, for lifetimes,

if what a teenager makes working a summer job

had to feed a family, if healthcare, a house

were fleeting dreams? So look again — 

he carries milk with the Huggies and he’s

black and he might not have made it home but you

wouldn’t, probably, have heard if he didn’t so call him

father, or husband, maybe Larry, or Junior, handsome,

thoughtful, drenched, scared, but not “Looter.”