Dream Song 327.5

A Poem by Anon ymous

It wasn’t a real tornado but that’s what we called it;
shingles ripped from the roof, a crack of electricity

killed the power, scared the kids huddled in the cellar
next to crates of potato wine. There are no answers

in a tempest. Another do-over: the shape your hand
makes in mine; a patch of grass that marks our first

kiss. The eastern part of town is legend; the west
with its churches, bars and rusted tracks. We’re torn

and frayed; you had an AM radio with a tinny speaker,
two stations; love songs all sound the same in stereo.

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