The last time I was in NYC—or Brooklyn actually—hurricane Sandy curtailed any number of activities that had been planned; a lot of time was spent indoors safe from the inundation but in rather squalid and unpleasant circumstances, beside listening to a car alarm go off repeatedly for more than 24 hours.
My book The Rip of Gales contains a poem that I wrote about the experience—I had thought it was included in the ample selection from that book on my poetry page but alas not.
None may guess what the future holds,
Or what disasters may emerge
As this day's trauma yet unfolds.
Here in a Brooklyn flat we wait
With news upon the radio,
Telling of floods, as tides rise great
And rain pours down in ceaseless flow.
Though we may pray, the gods dispose
According to prerequisites
None may surmise—revealing doles
Or joy as some chance fortune hits.
The hurricane approaches shore
With much uncertainty to breach
As we submit beneath its roar
And hope our cries the gods' ears reach.