This poem was among several penned by local writer
Barb Olson about the tornadoes that tore through the Springfield area on
March 12.
After the Tornado, March 2006
A storm came from out around Curran and Loami, east past Parkway Point and hit the Wabash Corner hard. Twister or straight winds, whatever it was, tore through old small Jerome that’s set in the belly of this city and took the walls and roof of Barrel Head Tavern, Joyce and Bill’s pick for barbecued ribs.
The old man and I use the chairs in the south room to get through the Register and the Tribune because of the light, as a tree in the next yard is still hung up on the main line. That was hot air blew in from Curran, pushed by cold with twisters, or straight winds, in the mix. We got the cold now, with no furnace, and the old man’s gone to sleep under the blankets he favors.
Day two, still no heat or light at home. I go to the library for refuge to doze among the homeless who are usually there, holding an easy mystery on my knees as an excuse to sleep. At 9, I’ll return to the bed I dream about all
day, change out of streetwear into pants loose and warm, and pull the old familiar blankets over my head until morning.
Night three, one block down, a woman works in the light of her kitchen, electric lights glow peach through curtains and sparkle behind glass brick of a bathroom window. My street is dark, a black swath in a lighted sea, but there is a sound of saws and lights flash along the ditch where the huge cypress upended into the main line, bringing it down three nights ago.
— Barb Olson
This article appears in May 4-10, 2006.
