Boathouse

Boathouse
By Elizabeth Southwood

The rain had fled.
I went to jog.
When I got back,
my house had slid,
but not my dog.

My dog did bark
to tell me that
on a big raft
my house was stacked
and now a boat.

My cat survived,
was eating fish.
Our cul-de-sac,
all liquified,
provided this.

A small island,
as if ad hoc,
loomed from a lake,
a steep highland
of granite rocks.

My home there moored,
a fine houseboat,
where my small stake
of land once stood,
I lived afloat.