Reading Rain in Islington.

A normal lunch. I'm looking out.
There's nothing real
beyond the window,
and yet, I still want.

Clusters of raindrops race
each other down my car,
and I think that's more
interesting than my soup,

sheltering in my beard, ready to
race itself in streaks down
the front of my freshest,
most-ironic t-shirt.

So, will betting on these
outcomes improve my chances?
Money will be exchanged
from left-to-right pocket,

but nothing real will emerge:
the downpour is still unfathomable,
the soup still dribbles from my chin,
and neither will actually fill me.