Barometric Pressure
Twin brass helm wheels, (like Gilligan’s) , gilded, not for
steering, Airguide
imprint in elegant cursive, the thermometer part long inactive.
“It doesn’t work, ” big brother said, “it’s indoors.”
Relative Humidity and Barometric Pressure tracked while
seeping thru the Screen to the
Sill, the daily variation between black and lazy red finger suggesting- @
least as presciently as Bob O’Wrill or Willard Scott- “Nor’easters” &
“thunder boomers” &
those suffocating summer days when
fans and flies hum, dipping in
warning (along w/
double-knee pain- one the instant replay of a
softball tumble; the other an inflamed echo of mis-
spent love) rising in
relief, spiraling thru
New Year’s & Easter, a thin crack in
the glass reflecting
adjustment of the lazy finger,4th of July to
X-mas, back again, ever-
winding, brass (w/ a
hint of rust) auguries tacitly measuring—thru
hopeful, hectic puberty on into harried,
hopeful middle-
age, amid real, imagined, even notreal news
cycles at once warning of & laughing off
hammer & sickle,
global gas, crescent-shaped hate a la
mode- the pressure that singles each day.
poem by Cretan Maineiac
Added by Poetry Lover
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