Tell Me When

The man next door has an ear of corn on the grate, in its husk, and the mesquite under it is the red it was when you went in. He turns the corn with the tongs.

Tell me when, he says, and looks down the block at the clock over the platform, and back at the corn.

You look at the corn. Smoke stands up from the grate in a column and does not lean. You say you can't tell.

Neither can he.