The Swing

TORNADO SEASON

Always late, beyond bedtime,
cowering in the hallway under
blankets and pillows,
straining to hear the train
through rain pounding the roof.
She wails "The Farmer
in the Dale," bouncing rhythm
against my legs,
and my hands bleed
with images of pine
straw piercing siding,
of bricks tumbling like dust,
of trailers crumbling like beer cans.
They say we're too easy on her,
let her get away with too much,
but I can't stand her cries
when I shout for silence
and the wind batters
and the rain soaks
and the cats prowl the
kitchen for food.