Barometer
He's tapping my glass again;
in disbelief he's gauging my veracity,
hoping to dislodge a stuck needle.
As far as the clear horizon,
the weather's cloudless, fair,
and he can't understand
why my reading's twenty-eight
and falling, though that TV blonde
predicted temperate and mild
while smoothing waves of isobars.
He hears a slippered step and turns.
Her dressing gown's in disarray
and at once he comprehends:
cumulonimbus are in her eyes,
and he's unsure if they forecast
a squall or prolonged depression.
Reprinted from Envoi #159.
Reprinted in Octopus,
2012 Templar Poetry Anthology,
Copyright David Olsen 2012.
Reprinted in Sailing to Atlantis,
Finishing Line Press,
Copyright David Olsen 2013.
Reprinted from Unfolding Origami,
Cinnamon Press,
Copyright David Olsen 2015.
He's tapping my glass again;
in disbelief he's gauging my veracity,
hoping to dislodge a stuck needle.
As far as the clear horizon,
the weather's cloudless, fair,
and he can't understand
why my reading's twenty-eight
and falling, though that TV blonde
predicted temperate and mild
while smoothing waves of isobars.
He hears a slippered step and turns.
Her dressing gown's in disarray
and at once he comprehends:
cumulonimbus are in her eyes,
and he's unsure if they forecast
a squall or prolonged depression.
Reprinted from Envoi #159.
Reprinted in Octopus,
2012 Templar Poetry Anthology,
Copyright David Olsen 2012.
Reprinted in Sailing to Atlantis,
Finishing Line Press,
Copyright David Olsen 2013.
Reprinted from Unfolding Origami,
Cinnamon Press,
Copyright David Olsen 2015.
