Reading Rain in Islington.
A normal lunch. I'm looking out.
There's nothing real
beyond the window,
but I still want.
Clusters of raindrops race
each other down my car,
and I think that's more
interesting than my soup,
now clustering in my beard ready to
race itself in streaks down
the front of my freshest,
most-ironic t-shirt.
So, will betting on these
outcome improve my chances?
Money will be exchanged
from left-to-right pocket,
but nothing real will emerge:
the downpour is still unreadable,
the soup still dribbles from my chin,
and neither pool will actually fill me.