the rain is beating at my window
beaten around like eggs
lashing about like a washing machine whirlpool
escalating in its stormy fervour
enforced and projected
upon the sad heads of walkers buy
strolling out of their drab little rooms
places of monetary see-saw
and dead-day time worship
it starts again
at full power
i'm drenched just hearing its furrowed roar
beating against these old fall-off windows
of an add-on verandah
as i read a memoir called dry
by a mister a.b.
it has to do with a young man's struggle with his demons
externally it's the bottle
and i'm compelled and fascinated to read of this journey
my old man loved the glass
and the amber fluid that filled it
6 a day sir
so for now i stay dry
feeling so incredibly wet
as i watch the rain swirl in bullet circles
outside my window
where the whitewash is coming
and nothing else matters
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