The thermometer reads 76 degrees
It has read 76 degrees for the last three years,
It has decided that 76 is always the correct temperature

I have 65 degrees of rotation of my life
It is quite comfortable here
Surely from time to time it is correct

The big engineer is aghast at the thing
He cannot abide the incorrect, the non-functional
We must search through the Works for correction

The little pond by the highway freezes, then
The Sun lifts the water and warm ducks land
Summer makes small fish dart to possible nymphs

Leaves rattle down and hit hard ice again
A dog somehow gauges the thickness and
Crosses slowly to the other side, tentative,

Unsure if her readings are accurate enough
To avoid a terrible plunge through
The thin skin of solid water

That’s what I must avoid, where the instrument
I have trusted is found to be lying
A stuck gauge that can’t show the hole in the ice

A good temperature for some days in August
But slowly you know it is cold and it can’t be right
What is it that demands that it always be warm?