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.

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