Bad Things Could Happen (Rev. 3)

After the flood a dead smell comes into the house.
It rises like a mist from below the floor.
From where the water pooled.

For three nights I dream a dead body,
the body of a man under the house,
drowned he while waited to kill me.

On the morning drive, my joy for life fills the car like tears.
It spills into the streets and runs through the city,
a trail of joy spread open
like blood for vultures.