Famous people have been dying all week, and the Christmas tree just stopped drinking. Talk about omens. It's impossible to get the venetian blinds to stay level anymore. Everywhere I look, people are running the errands they won't remember by this time tomorrow. I remember how, years ago, I had to cut the fishing line caught in the high branches beside the Mullica River, sacrificing the lure that put a kink in my neck as I hunched over my own lap to tie it. I fear my wife will decide to spend my last decade on earth with a better man. I fear I'll be a footnote to somebody else's grandeur. I fear I'll die as painfully as I deserve. One by one, the bulbs of the chandelier go dead above our dining room table. I wish I could say the coming dark was taking me by surprise.
Copyright © 2017 Charles Rafferty. “Forecast” originally appeared in The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017). Reprinted with permission by the author.
Charles Rafferty is the author of several poetry collections, The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017).
Date Published: 2018-08-03
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/forecast-1