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Tornadoes in the Parlor | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Tornadoes in the parlor,
in the kitchen, in the bathroom, too,
churned every hour Dad was home.
He never worked
and with good reason.
But Sis could tell you more.
She’d help Ma board up the house
when I’d walk out the door
and ride my bike around the block.
If you find Sis today,
she’ll tell you funnels
tore the basement, too.
So what, you say?
Well, Dad’s been gone
for seven years
and Sis is somewhere.
She needs to know
there’s still no work
and, worse,
good weather here
is still a squall.

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