Don’t Bug Me

Don’t bug me, I’m only the transistor 

radio left over from the last 

tornado warning heard in the basement,

a green and off-white plastic box, a shell

of a container, for the voice of Bruce

Saunders, who repeated himself, naming

counties that should fear wind threatening 

to upend at any moment the swing set,

the basketball hoop perched on the north side

of the driveway, children practicing toward

unbearable proficiency, unlikely

as success in panning for gold in

the St. Joseph River in Leeper Park.