At a table, outside, in the rain, under a rundown
overhang, I tossed my legs over
the arm of an empty chair. Our imaginary
You’ve got rain leg, said my real friend.
Rain fell through the cracks
of a rundown overhang
I do, I said. And you’ve got rain foot.
Let’s call it a draw.
Swigging back, tossing down sodas
from a bottle makes things more lax
more country with a dash of art.
Our imaginary friend would call it
He would beat us to the punch with his
At the table, outside, in the rain, under a rundown
overhang, the tops the bottoms the sides of my legs
wet slick. They had a good
lax country artsy quaint feel