We could hear it when we skipped
Down the steps of the big yellow bus
Stopped short in our US Kedds
Hugging the dusty side of the road for dear life.
The familiar sound greeted our ears,
High pitched, high octane whine
Like a shard of glass caught
In a tornado slicing through
Cardboard, tumbleweeds, odd pieces of wood,
And aluminum siding leaving holes
And with each hole
The sound was modified
As the air whistled through
Shriller by the moment
Until it ended in a big "bang!"
When the tornado abruptly halted
Followed by the clatter of objects
Suddenly subject to gravity
Including the jagged piece of glass
Tinkling onto a concrete slab
Which once was the foundation
Of dreams, of hopes and a home.
At least it was a truly local condition.
"Mama's drunk tonight,"
One of us declared softly like a muted curse
And then we walked carefully
Across the patchwork of green and brown lawn
As if the ground was made
Of shiny green and gold Christmas ornaments
And we were engineers
Entering a shaky building
To inspect the damage
Wrought by the tornado.
by Ira L. White All Rights Reserved Copying, reprinting or distribution of this poem, in whole or in part, is prohibited without written permission from the author
The Best of Lovejoy Mysteries: Friends in High Places by A&E Home Video
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He's charming, handsome and brilliant -- and not to be trusted for a second. He's Ian McShane as the Lovely disreputable antiques dealer whose ability to spot a genuine antique at a glance is rivaled only by his rare knack for getting into trouble. (1995)
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