A STORM BREWING

A STORM BREWING

I don't what them to see me,
here beneath the side porch
where I hide when they skip rope -
play beneath a maple tree.
I know the big one, she stares
talks, soon she will point at me –
I’ll start to cry.
I never hurt her or pointed –
never asked her to play, she
would say no.

So what if she's bigger - she lives
right across the street; still stares
at me beneath her maple tree –
at me, under my steps.

It was normal, I kind of got use
to her until the day clouds
gathered above that tree, and
all the children skipping rope
stopped skipping. All the people
on sidewalks near my steps –
walked faster. . .

Why I wondered – staring up over
the tree. Then – the big girl yelled
over, “A tornado soon – you better
hide.” I thought she was teasing
me, but I did hide in storms. I was
petrified in storms. And last week
a storm tore roofs off houses, Daddy
he hid beneath a tree on the golf
course and Mommy yelled. I guess
no one should be near a tree.

The kids, they were standing beneath
the maple tree, and had to be telling
fibs. As the cloud grew darker, I
began to believe her – all the children
scattered, so I ran up the steps, opened
the screen door, and sank to the floor.

What to do? Mommy and Daddy
were shopping – what if the tornado
hit the store? I called information –
asked for the phone number,
dialed it, and asked to talk to my
parents.

I guess they called their name over
some load speaker. The woman told
me they paged them.
What was paged?
I only wanted to talk to them –
tell them about the storm.

Finally I heard them talk, as
they said, “Don’t worry.” Telling
me no storm was coming – I had
nothing to hide from.

Well – I never did tell them
about the big girl, who skipped
rope under the maple tree –
or me, crouched beneath our
yellow steps.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Mrs. Moan


Old wooden steps
creaked, a broken rocker
a fixture
on a rundown porch.

Soiled curtains blew free
from a window frame,
no screens to keep
insects out.

Odd, a mustard color light
with no shade
held giant webs
where spiders lived,
silver threads
stretched way above
a child’s head.

Children in the neighborhood
feared this woman,
Mrs. Moan. . .
who lived alone.
Hardships turned
her heart to stone.

When she smiled
she snickered. . .
in a sneaky way
yelling out,
"Won't you come and play?"

Death took her sunshine,
pride and joy
some fifty years ago.
Calling out for other children
playing in the street,
"I have some popcorn for
you to eat!"

Talking
to a memory
of what use to be,
before her daughter met
her grave, before she entered
the seventh grade.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved