by Robert L. Penick
I am the only house left after the tornado introduces a new order to the neighborhood. Other dwellings, greater and lesser, have been multiplied and extrapolated across lawns, streets, and sidewalks. “Is this entropy?” I wonder, as my windows gaze out over the recent diffusion of order. Things are not what they used to be, but this is certain: Zillow listings will need to be updated.
I was the first house here, on a dirt road making a shortcut through the wooded area between the town and a highway that passed by without actually dropping in to say hello. Humans on foot would traipse past on their way to the Greyhound stop. It was a quiet, peaceful time, and folks who couldn’t handle the serenity eased on down the road.
Over time, lesser homes were erected on lots cleared of trees and undergrowth. Lawns were leveled and sowed with grass seed so they looked like the tops of billiard tables. The cheaper construction, particle board instead of plywood, studs placed 24 inches apart instead of 16, would not incur penalty for decades. At the time, these little dwellings sprouted around me like mushrooms around the base of a tree. The population multiplied, children haunting the shrinking woods until the last stand fell, then scurried around the neighborhood in packs.
Years passed, lifetimes ended and were replaced, and my surroundings grew more constricted and defined. We became suburbia. This until the tornado, which is the arranger of detail and the settler of accounts. It is my protector and, in some sense, avenger. For a time I shall be again surrounded by the chaos of nature and its continuous beginning. Through its capricious wisdom plans are often reduced to toothpicks.
Robert L. Penick has published poetry and prose in over two-hundred different literary journals, including The Hudson Review, North American Review, Plainsongs, and Oxford Magazine. The Art of Mercy: New and Selected Poems is now available from Hohm Press, and more of his work can be found at theartofmercy.net