poem #41

weather map 2
 
WATCHING THE WEATHER CHANNEL IN JULY
 
Hot and dry, upper 90´s in Dubai.
The rains remain across England.
Typhoons once more, south of Lahore.
New York is humid as usual.
 
Spain dry, Belgium wet.
Jakarta, Doha, Rio, Peru:
faraway places, shaded red or blue,
white for snow. They don’t seem so, so
faraway. Perhaps I will call
an old lover in New York
and ask if it’s all really true.
I will say, ´So it’s humid in New York.´
Every day, she will say. Every single day.
 
Baghdad is hot, as Baghdad ought.
Germany got the rain it expected.
London is rainy, predictably grey.
The storm moves south on Tuesday.
 
Typhoons in Malaysia,
typhoons in Jakarta,
a time for sun, a time for fog.
The timing of the storm
was right on time.
 
But things cannot be like they are,
said a faraway voice, insisting.
How are you there? Are you really there?
I do not think New York today
feels at all like New York.
 
Dubai hot and dry,
rain in Berlin,
floods in Bangladesh.
Dubai was Dubai,
New York was New York,
I was myself,
it was all as it was,
it’s always cold in the mountains.
 
You were you,
I was me,
my life was my own
to live
and reality –
well, that’s reality.
 
Of late I begin
to disbelieve the weatherman.
Things are not, perhaps,
at all what they are.
Today Dubai
is hot and dry
and raining, raining, raining.
 
– Matthew Saks
 
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