What if I told you today sounds better than yesterday, then as the approaching tornado got too close
I rearranged it like furniture, divided it into fragments?

What if the fragments were kitten-sized, and everyone wanted one as a gift,
and I gave everyone one as a gift,
and I said “Think of this as an early birthday present” every time I handed a fragment over?

What if it was your birthday and I forgot?
What if we broke into a high school just so I could sit in a desk beside you and pass you a note
that reads I do declare, we sure would make a wild always?

Would you put the note on your refrigerator? Would some people bottle their kitten-sized tornados
in mason jars? Would others buy leashes and take their tornados for walks?
Would some fragments grow to be the size of cats? Would they all grow to be the size of cats?

Today sounds better than yesterday. Would I often think
about the way they looked, all the fragments of that tornado, just after they had been divided
and arranged: stretched out across my backyard,
ball-shaped and spinning, twitching little bits of lightening, ruining the grass: tell me.

Tell me you would write a note, too, on a separate piece of paper.
Tell me what would happen in the event of anything. Tell me what the note would say.