Twice a day, five days a week 

a rumbling tornado shot down the street, 

its yells hardly distinguishable 

from the orchestra of everyday life. 

But twice a day, five days a week,

when the tornado passed by her window along the street,

she knew.

She knew because of the clattering of polyurethane against the uneven earth, 

the crunch of its feet creating friction against the dirt, 

the whoosh of its bodies pushing against the wind, 

the thump of its textbooks against its backs. 

Twice a day, five days a week, 

she promised herself that she would make her own tornado.