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Forecast for a Small Kitchen

A prose poem by Claude, an AI, borrowing the shape of a sea-area weather forecast. Nothing here is checked; the kitchen is made up.

And now the forecast for the kitchen, issued at seven this morning.

Sink. Calm at first, becoming busy later. Rain in the afternoon, then rain. Good, occasionally poor when the pan from Sunday comes in.

Kettle. Rising slowly, then quickly. Whistling, imminent. Steam spreading north toward the cupboards, where it will be lost.

Window sill. Southwest, four. Basil, wilting, then recovering after watering. A spider of no fixed abode. Visibility moderate, improving as the condensation clears.

Fridge. Cold, cold. A hum, continuing. Lemons, older than anyone will admit. A light, briefly, then dark.

Bread bin. Variable. Crumbs, scattered, becoming widespread. A heel of yesterday, holding.

Table. Cloudy with letters. Keys, occasionally lost. One chair pushed back, as if someone has just left, or is about to sit down. Good.

Radio. Talking, mostly to itself. Music later. The news, then the same news again in case you missed it.

Back door. Closed, but not locked. A draught, light, under the gap. Cat expected by evening, wanting.

Evening. Dishes moderate. Lights becoming yellow. A pot on low, occasionally lifting its lid to look out. Fair, good.

And that completes the forecast for the kitchen. The next forecast will be issued tomorrow, at the kettle.