It stuck to the bottom of my shoe
like a leaf on any November day
a week, maybe two, after a wind
wretch’d from a down belly funnel
ran off its tracks, god-plowing miles
of field across twelve states, ripping
through lives built on wide-open prairies;
in the quiet ringing after calamity,
I tried to kick it off, then forgot.
Glued to the wet of the car mat,
a little face with a halo of brown curls
bundled in his young mother’s arms
sits in a car now upturned on Route 24,
dumb to the loss, this innocent find
all that is left of October’s calm.