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Now reading
After the Tornado
Anyone driving by Ridge and Swamp Pike this morning
can see prisoners from The Montgomery County Jail
wading hip deep in grass,
picking up dentures, plastic dishes,
the little miracle of a hand mirror
that wasn't smashed
and above them it's not hard to imagine
the newly dead blinking,
trying to get used to
the sight of their own roofs
no bigger than match books,
and the huge factory where for years
they parked their cars every morning
no bigger than a sow
with nursing piglets.
No wonder they stick around,
floating up there like wash,
looking down at maples the size of broccoli heads.
It must be dawning on them
that anything so small
can go on without them,
which lets them ease away from
. their important lives
long enough to practice
taking their eyes off the road
that curves like a snake through the meadow
and when the cars keep driving
inside the little stitches
they take their eyes away longer
until they say,
sounding like the wind
in its most trustworthy voice of consonants,
what a luxury it is
to know that nothing will stop without them.
That's when they decide to drift
toward the curved margin of the universe
where time forgets itself
and turning for one last look,
they see the tiny thief,
released from his cell
for a whole morning,
handing the red purse
back to the housewife.