A Sponge City, Zhengzhou, Henan, China

Cars float like scooped potato skins

though made of hard-pressed metal.

The Leader, absent, steams his sins,

conceals the boiling kettle.

His Emperor’s clothes are firm as steel

with wifi chained to wire,

His death toll numbers are unreal

but who dares call him liar. 

Here’s tunnel visioned flood-filled roads —

an underpass that’s buried —

Dropped vehicles with body loads —

too heavy to be ferried —  

One whole year’s rain in just four days,

who’d not admit it’s tragic

But the Party has its ways,

believes in its own magic.

The CCP knows every car,

the owners’ names, addresses

But trained police don’t travel far,

aren’t asked to aid the messes.

Though human beings want to help

with skillset and experi’ence

They’re forced to watch like submerged kelp

become part of the devi’ance.

The Party won’t say ‘natural’,

it won’t accept ‘disaster’,

Will always see its cup as ‘full’,

fix mountain cracks with plaster.

And as the water table ebbs

from that new sponge net city,

The ‘News’ extols, shows patterned webs —

reality’s less pretty.  

What’s one to do? The lies pile high —

flood safety’s polished shiny.

Concern for public good is sly,

the state’s compassion tiny.

Where is the state’s benevolence,

concern for soul or body?

The Party’s heart makes no advance

beyond the hard-worn shoddy.

To live it must bang Goodness down,

stomp Death beneath the surface —

The Party would have Heaven drown,

this is its mandate’s purpose.

Before all’s said and almost done

on how The Party’s not good,

Clear streams of countenance still run

whose flow connects with godhood.

They say that bodies may decay

but Spirit lives forever. 

Lush flowers flush much pain away

in bonds they will not sever.

Here they mark the seventh day

after Death’s rough visit.

Materials laid down display

their deep belief in Spirit.