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Weather Report

Fifteen miles west of Boston

and mostly the news is of small creatures

and snow. A self-appointed snow inspector,

I tune in to the weather: snow and sun,

sometimes clouds or showers or wind

or chattering letters that spell chilly.

As with everywhere I’ve lived

the forecasters look like

Vanna White surrogates or

used-car salesmen. Still,

they grow on you

like poker pals upping the ante—

with shifts of pressure.

Sometimes the weather calls their bluff.

Still, they, at least, seem to know

where they are. Right now

a light snow is falling,

a steady downpour

of flakes fine as gnats.

To her usual, “What’s up?”

I give my old friend the usual answer:

“Same old shit shoveled a different way.”

I bundle up. Before I thread my fingers

through the shovel’s handle,

it flashes a conspiratorial grin.

from PrecipitatesFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2003
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Debra Kang Dean Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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