d...d...d...Decade LXX: Saturday Night Disaster

There's a click and you can smell something warming the wires,
plastic wood, and metal; someone tells you to back up
Before She thumps to a stop, blonde hair uncurling in a gust of wind.
A voice fuzzes over her walkie-talkie:
Dis...aster at the...ant
She clicks it, calls into it,
sits down in the sand and clay against tread ziggurats--
you feel grit under your palms, too, as you lean into the same sound.
Her sneaker hits the hard base of a solidified tread, stops.
What?
A chill falls from your spine, pooling around your shorts,
as if the tile was a pond. Despite the summer vibrating behind you,
beneath that yellow light, thumping against the glass. Behind you.
You're the one in the glass-light to it.
She's wearing a coat.
The a/c makes you shiver.
The tile reflects kitchen light, shadows swapping cards.
Everything hums--it's not a digital decade.
It's a disaster decade.
70 miles an hour, 70 yards from safety.
She begins yelling into the walkie.
No one responds. Cards slither in the kitchen.
The house's skeleton pops, creaks.
You remember pink fluff behind the sheetrock.
These walls are parka-thin.