Poetry · Poem
Small Weather, Boca Grande
A short poem on kitchens, ceiling fans, and afternoon forecasts.
In the kitchen, the fan
turns the afternoon
into a slow argument
the ceiling is having
with itself.
Outside, a small weather
has been forecast,
and is arriving,
punctually,
as a curtain
of rain
across the mango tree.
You are pouring water
into a glass.
I am pretending
to read the paper.
Between us, the weather
and the fan
come to an understanding.