A playful poem about a mother predicting every minor disaster
The Household Forecast
like a weather map.
Rain by eleven.
Someone will forget a coat.
The dog will eat something
that cannot be eaten.
She is right about the rain,
wrong about the dog,
and magnificently accurate
about my brother's shoelaces.
By breakfast she has issued
three warnings and one blessing:
Take an umbrella.
Do not trust the bowl.
Call when you get there.
Outside, the sky is clear.
Inside, we carry on
under a forecast
that has never needed proof.