TORNADO
by Tobi Alfier
Kansas City, convention center,
sixteenth floor. Sick, gray-yellow outside,
so thick, all that’s visible is trash
hitting the windows, trying to get in.
Newspaper, metal, wood—
like when a bird strikes the breakfast patio
on a stormy morning, falls back stunned,
and you’re helplessly trapped inside by the flood.
The noise, the wind, day and night look the same.
No sirens that high up, no television warnings,
no elevator. Can’t see out to be frightened of rain,
no thunder to be heard, no lightning.
This is the muffled nightmare that silences
everyone, the dream never familiar.
Conventioneer with a mini-bar, held hostage
by the storm, a glass coddled in your shaking fist.
Gyroscope Review - page 1!