"The Forecast"

Dad leaves the weather channel on while he ferries
garbage cans to the yard’s edge,
the dead leaves cracking under his feet.
Though September, a Tornado Warning could
beep across the screen. Or a Severe Thunderstorm.
Get the cats inside. I can prepare,
crank the windows, huddle in the basement.
Preparing or stalling, Dad cycles
thirty miles a day; he alters the route
from one sequence of prairie roads to another.
Only change ceases to change.
He phones to give me an update.
I’m in Los Angeles, Dad. What weather?
He explains the specifics:
dew point, wind velocity, cloudcover.
When I move, he’ll delight in new territory to monitor.
He may not be able to control
the sky, but he knows the forecast.
His birthday is Monday.
I sense tornado weather
in California—ridiculous,
even the season is wrong—
yet the sky darkens, the chimes clatter-sing.
When I was six, a tornado sought
our train, I resisted hiding
in the ditch, I stood on the bank
and watched the black
a hundred yards off till Dad yanked
me down. On the birthday card I write,
Wish I could be there. Illinois:
I see a tornado approach, oh
far off, far off. Dad walks up beside me,
chatting the facts: the distance, its speed.
I grab his hand,
I fix him to the earth, glaring forward
He’s mine he’s mine he’s mine
while Dad states the shortened distance,
the heightened speed, how
black, how black it is.

written September 1994