Bitter gusts beget whirlwinds of leaves.
Minor tempests that twist and course
Along an asphalt and concrete coulee;
Sucking up the cast-away detritus
Of a wintery gray indifferent city.
Ephemeral eddies of air dashing
Themselves quickly to death against
Parked cars and curbs and bushes;
Gone without leaving a mark.
And I, inveterate champion of underdogs,
Wish that one could grow strong enough
To unleash the full fury of a tornado;
Peeling away roofs and ripping off awnings,
Upending trees and overturning cars,
Instead of just blowing around a plastic bag
That inevitably gets stuck on a fence.