What To Do Poem by Stan Petrovich

When the seascape walls are crushing
their force upon you,
What do you do? When the herons
are picking out the best part of your bloated
body, the eyes, what do you do?
When the screaming mess of cities
and the abhorred citizens are threateneing you,
what remains to be done?

I cry into the tide at noontime,
but how much more volume does
that increase the ocean by?
What is there to be done,
if nothing works at all?
Nothing staves?