A Beer on a Rainy Afternoon

The water flows across the flags,

tubular table legs look centimetres shorter.

I look down at the owner's shoes,

hand-made, no doubt,

they keep not a drop of water out.

This man talks at me again,

it will be another opinion

or some conspiracist's fallacy;

like the moonshots were filmed in Texas,

and there is no God but Abraxas.

But I'm not listening.

The rain falls along the road

a confusing label for such horizontal motion.

I watch all of the skidding cars,

some late by now,

or late forever anyhow.

The man is talking still,

he will be poking outstretched fingers

quite adamant, indignantly;

like a tent-show preacher handling snakes

for suckers expecting an even break.

So I'm not listening.

I'm drinking his beer at noon-tide,

wishing for silence when he's offering bullshit.

I wish all of these afternoons

 - some long, some short -

devoid of any rational thought.