It doesn't have to be true. This is how
the poem begins, with an explosion
at the quarry or a tornado siren
at noon. The explosion rocks your house. 
You feel the kitchen wall lift from the slab
of concrete. The tornado siren sounds
like a bird call. Otherwise, everything
is normal. Your neighbor is yelling at
her son for tearing up the flower bed. 
A funnel cloud writhes on a gray canvas.
The news declares it Eerily beautiful.
How it’s hung on the horizon like art.
It is all so futile. The mayor bans
Tornados, and everyone agrees
the explosion never happened. Quarrymen 
continue to collect half-moons of black
beneath their fingernails like always.
The woman you loved remarries. Cops kill
an innocent man asleep in his bed. 
The doorway to your kitchen sits crooked
still. Nothing changes. You can't close the door. 
It’s all true. You just have to live with it.