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Poem

We accept tornadoes here,
expect them, tick them off
as they pass by like demon dreidels.
Usually they are not a big deal
unless they are.
Spring culls its little lambs
in all sorts of ways.

The murder rate in Chicago
climbs ever higher
until the city prays for more snow.
Folks in their privileged trailer parks
get rolled like dice.

A pressing need for body bags
creates work for some.
The addicted and dying oblige
as best they can.
It’s all a small town hush
unless a celebrity overdoses
then distraught, the news is spread
from parlor to parlor.
Shooting-up on the streets
is a recreational choice for those
who camp-out in Cleveland and Dayton.

Meanwhile birds keep singing,
Spring flowers struggle to bloom
squeezed as they are
between such climatic collisions.
We hear the roar and rumble
of funnels turning upon themselves
as they twist the nights away.

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