Thoughts drag in the pace of rain,
This strange melancholia is always pain.
Philosophy of wine from France is recalled.
Geographic displacement, it’s hard to remain sane.
Or even same.
Thoughts are paced by cigarette breaks,
Puddles of mud have turned into lakes.
Philosophy of coffee from No. 8 is recalled.
It’s hard to remain poetically incorrect.
Or even a suspect.
This lace I’m in is a beast.
We don’t “feast”, we eat.
We don’t “consume”, we drink.
Politeness is an unnecessary accessory.
As are umbrellas, apparently.
( I’m stuck in a cafe on a rainy day.)