by Melinda D'Aloia
Rolling down the sand dunes,
my little sister and I were thrown
out of a tornado and into a place unknown.
Quiet glances at each other,
pretending we were really lost.
Sometimes we were on another planet,
other times we were in the past.
Looking for clues, how to get home.
Everyone a stranger, even mom and dad.
We needed to hide from the bounty hunters, pirates, and aliens.
No maps or telephones,
driftwood as our only transportation.
Minutes were hours,
hours were years.
Until the twister came back
and took us home.
A raging fire is burning wooden grocery
store palettes every night.
Silhouetted bodies making chatter
circle the fire in attempt to escape
the cool breeze blowing from the ocean
slowly crashing on shore
a few feet away.
Back and forth we pass the dump,
headlights and tail-lights move in and out
to join the social hour.
Tires spin in the sand, bottles crash,
music bumps, people stumble
all around with toxic joy.
A blur of noise.
Out of sight and out of mind,
an inevitable routine to end
our islander days.