Poem: Rain That Fine Quench

His texting the weather cues
a side-eyed shopfront collapse.
Prows emerge from navvied-grey, 
ground-erasing chiminea to pop
the chance to join a pooling
inches from my flat. Two weaving
and sweating clouds monkeying
the works; cocks of looks who mind
tithed memes of our town/storm 
through perplex.

Truthy mooning over yanked screw
looses shunts earthed outrage to 
and from our covers. Determined,
bottle-christened, loved chat via
metering bars is our hale. Soared
thumbs search to refresh with sheet
anchors staying the swale.

For Mike.

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