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.