Lumber pillars hunch under the roof's weight
as Tom Waits croaks forgiveness,
seconds grooving,
clock ticking toxins away:
make it rain.
A conjoined boyfriend-girlfriend
slop down a gyro,
giggle at their secret,
a love any monkey could see.
Curdled feta sticks at the
back of the throat,
a sour echo of sour mash.
Mooks in sweats share beer.
Counterfolk swap Saturday
morning stories,
passing off normal for witty.
Only supreme effort prevents
drool, lo-tops quaking,
unable to bring food to lips:
O, make it rain
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